A Fucking Rant.

I swear to the Gods: I get no relief from ANYTHING, NOT EVER. I am so crushed into a little, teeny ball of angst that remains plastered up against the wall at all times. I NEVER get space to myself for any amount of time that does me any good – enough time to replenish my frenzied brain or my anxiety ridden body…my roommates are both fucking slobs without a care in the world for anyone else’s comforts or preferences; they both carry on as if they live completely alone when it comes to things that effect all of us; and I am fucking sick of it. I am fucking sick of the way that they seem to almost work in unison to deprive me of alone time – one leaves and the other comes home, etc.

I’m sick of their faces right now, sick of looking at them both with their carefree expressions every day; I am sick to death of the way that one of them watches the same fucking shit Television shows and the same two or three James Bond films over and over and over. Or how he insists on playing his music with the bass turned up so loud, I cannot concentrate on my own tasks in my own bedroom. I am sick of how little common sense gets applied to situations when it comes to either one of them, too…instead of sliding the empty pizza box on its side BEHIND the recycling can, stupidly and mindlessly opting to COVER THE ENTIRE CAN by setting it over the top, instead…wtf sense does that kind of shit make???

Or how my house looks like we’ve been camping in the living room and billiard room for going on 3 months now, as my roommate is also too fucking lazy to put his gear away after using it. The cycle goes like this repeatedly, too:

He pulls out all of his gear and goes camping

he comes home and literally dumps his shit in the billiard room (the room that the front door leads directly into)

he leaves his shit strewn all over the fucking house until he goes camping again

repeat

repeat

then he gets some wild hair up his fucking ass sometime in early December or so to clean up the fucking indoor campsite at random and puts the shit into the garage (but doesn’t put it up where it all belongs though)

before long, it’s time to go camping again and it all starts anew.

 

So fucking tired of it. Tired of the way that I can’t keep even the tiniest piece of space for my own use without it being pirated somehow by one of them…tired of how I have to stay shut up in my room because the useless birds are driving me insane, or if they were magically being quiet, the one roommate would be constantly in my doorway trying to show me something on youtube or socknet or Instagram –

“I’m fucking busy, dumbass!!! Can’t you see the document open on my screen and don’t you notice my full attention focused on it???”

Jesus, it’s like pulling teeth to get a mother fucker to just leave me the fuck alone for a chunk of time….always being bothered by the stupidity of their ways, even when I make a point to remove myself from it.

“Dude…I have REAL problems, REAL troubles and strife…you’ll forgive me if I don’t sympathize with your meager and pathetic excuses for reasons to be upset…come back and talk to me when you’re a parent, or when you lose your kid, or when your mother is hospitalized for being insane again, or when your father gets beaten almost to death downtown over your hooker, drug-addicted daughter, etc. Don’t cry to a beggar about having no money or whatever, you seem so miserably shallow when you talk to me about trivial horse shit like you do, when I have REAL struggles to suffer through…damn.”

Why do you slam the front door (that shares a wall with my bedroom, right where the head of my bed is) when you leave for work every morning at 6:30? It’s not as if you aren’t aware that I am sleeping there. Why do you fail to lock the front door upon leaving, while I should theoretically still be asleep? Why do you treat the front porch as a trash receptacle for your garbage from your car? Why do you ever bother with an ashtray at all when 99% of your butts end up on the fucking ground?

 

 

Noise Pollution.

 I’m in quite some mood,

the first few moments,

of my day were good,

then the components,

of my domestic brood,

plus the added bonus,

of my own inquietude;

 

the bass thumps strong,

my blood up too far,

a siege lain upon eardrums,

feeling like a Wild-Card,

a party after Junior Prom,

is where he must think we are,

a refusal to lower the volume,

met my good ol’ trusty crowbar;

 

It really shouldn’t be,

a thing so impossible to know,

that folks with PTSD,

need to perceive certain control,

when the music level envelopes me,

so loud that my brainwaves roll,

no one should wonder why I’m angry,

and refuse to remove my earphones.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Not In My Kitchen.

It’s hard to try to summarize, but in short – here it is: my roommates are each intelligent and dependable in his own right; they are unique in unique ways that are too minutely attached to the tiny details of one’s persona to ever take an accurate stock of.

In one of them (“Dice”), I can have complete faith regarding the maintenance of my car, for example; this same roommate would also be the one I would turn to with a jammed rifle, any kind of measurement, centralized heating and cooling issues, and/or the use or instructions for use of any power tool imaginable; I trust this roommate much more so than I trust 9 out of 10 human beings on a very generalized basis because of the years’ worth of water under our bridge as friends without any drama or bullshit at all; he is a kind person with a good heart, in spite of himself; his is also the sole hand that touches the BBQ grill in my household. We share things like The Walking Dead, LOTR, reggae music, good weed and being recluse in common. This roommate is Persian (Iranian) by blood, born in the US to parents who emigrated here during the 1960’s.

The other roommate (“The Orphan”) is the one who I can query at random with a wide ranging interrogative and receive generally sound answers from; he was also my sky-diving instructor, so there’s a very weird kind of trust between this roommate and myself despite our sometimes volatile relationship; he is a surf buddy, a swim buddy and as some of you may remember – got here as my adopted orphan, who was a suicidal train wreck on the other side of the globe when we first became friends. He has been here over 2 years now, has healed his spirit well, got his citizenship, has a good job and a cute little girlfriend; and is doing shiningly in comparison to what he once was. He is also a former French Military Special Forces Paratrooper who has an uncanny comprehension of all things tactical and military. We share things like the Unsecret Death Wish, the ocean, raunchy jokes and coffee in common.This roommate is Corsican by blood (which is French by nationality), raised in Germany, and is a French National with German and American citizenship.

The three of us can happily sit around our kitchen table at a meal and discuss pretty much anything in an amiable, if not jovial, manner. Typically, this is the case. Tonight, things became heated between them during a (take a guess) political disagreement. I came out into the kitchen and said,

“C’mon you guys…really, you’re gonna let Trump or whoever ruin our BBQ?” in a joking tone to lighten the tension (because that’s who I am, the peacemaker), only to find out that they were bumping heads about the tragedy in France.

It was pretty disturbing to me, as I proceeded to listen to the Orphan vehemently arguing his point to Dice with true passion; such a final and decisive reaction he is having that he feels as if it has come to the point where mass preemptive murders via the military would be the only answer. To hear the guy whose military experience has unfailingly spoken truths upon truths thus far say such a thing was deeply unsettling; and left a nasty taste in my mouth.

Tar and Feather Suit.

These days the praise is so long-gone:

the desire once harbored for you to belong,

you’ve gone ahead and just moved right on,

into my nest with your reach – over-long…

I can’t help but to see through the “friendly”:

the poorly fabricated façade is now crumbly,

ignored chances to walk away from it humbly,

and now, the blood in veins courses numbly…

no differences to work out between:

two people from long opposing teams,

while one keeps the other second-guessing,

behind intentions growing into forces unseen…

the equation you’ve laid out is rather easy to deduce:

you think that you’re exempt from any need for gratitude,

an explosion of the magma from my own home-made brew,

that’s seething at the threshold of my door opened up to you…

if you had any sense, you’d be driving fast and far:

as my eyes have tired of looking at your parked car,

and I feel like I know nothing of who you truly are,

beneath your suit of feathers glued onto hardened tar.

A Woman and Two Men.

It’s come to where I can’t help but to finally say,

after biting my tongue for two years’ worth of days,

over things ever done in the stupidest ways,

by the two gentlemen who I call my roommates;

 

the idiocy that shines through each one’s daily moves,

leaves me stuck there on stupid like gum on a shoe,

instead of applying any logic to the shit that they do,

they form a tempest of absurdity and sweep right on through;

 

it would kill either one to rinse his cereal bowl,

       before impetuously stacking them in a mile-high row,

right next to the sink where they good and well know,

that I will wash them in order to see out the kitchen window;

 

dirty camping trip laundry and mildewed swim trunks,

overflowing garbage cans that appear to have blown up,

my family room is littered with dollar bills and empty cups,

my back yard decorated with engine oil and cigar butts;

 

and, though I know it isn’t born of grandiosity,

and that my boys must suffer from what’s sheer stupidity,

neither one seems bothered by existing so confusedly,

one day attaches to the next with such mindless simplicity;

 

bottles left on the front porch step when the trash can is nearby,

things that make such little sense that I often want to cry,

toilet seat ever-up, missing socks, poison oak in both my eyes,

stains and spots, rotting apricots, and the associated flies;

 

they hardly wonder why people say that I mother them,

it’s like I live with two schoolboys, ages eight and ten,

any alternative to the drill is hard to let myself imagine,

and so, it goes, the side-show starring a woman and two men.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Lily Lives!

It’s been quite some time since I planted anything new (I don’t farm ganja at home) in the front or back yard at my house; this is because I live with men who would sooner park the shell of a Studebaker over a patch of green than to water it and help keep it alive. The gardening aspect of what used to be two of my favorite places to spend my time has all but vanished in the face of what has gradually become the likes of a junkyard. I can barely stand to look outside in the back anymore.

Last month when we had a few gnarly wind storms, our side-back fence ate shit onto our side between ourselves and our neighbor (an awesome human being who happens to be a federal police officer and an Iraq War veteran, for the record), smashing and demolishing anything green still standing, including the last stem of sentimental gardening remaining to me. It was a huge prize-winning and quite mutant-esque flower: my Burnt Orange Easter Lily that I planted within weeks of moving in here with Dice over five years ago. In time, it had become one of my best kept secrets and thrived in the face of all the destruction, automobile chemicals, and various dogs with the tendencies to dig.

I will admit to being deeply bothered by the sight of the fence collapsed into rubble atop of the strip of yard where my lily had lived. I dared not say a thing though, because I repeatedly fall into the mindset that my boys don’t pay particular attention to my wishes or desires when it comes to most things; why waste the breath? Dice finally put the finishing touches on the reconstructed fence yesterday afternoon. I had jokingly commented that he took long enough to put up the lattice over there on the side yard, as he had been over there noisily doing things for several hours after the last piece had gone up.

This morning, I awoke exceptionally late (for me) from a night full of terror and horrid nightmares; and I went out back with my coffee to begin to shake off the high-speed wobbles that such a night unfailingly bring. I was so happily surprised to see that I was wrong in being certain all this time that Dice has no clue about my sense of loss behind my final patch of garden being wiped off the landscape. Dice is good this way, as this isn’t the first time he has shocked me speechless through an unspoken action that tells of his attention paid to the things I say in passing when I am sure that nobody is listening.

 

Ventilation.

evidenceSome people have too much drama in their’ hearts…not necessarily too much time on their’ hands, but definitely too much interest in wasting the time and energies of others with the absolute bullshit that they consider noteworthy, somehow. I have several key people in my life who are made from this stock of human characteristics:
lonely but unaware of this fact, indulgent in a handicapping superiority complex that is totally unwarranted, absolutely clueless as to the ways of human loyalties, and without a caring thought of anyone else’s needs or desires against their’ own.
In turn, these people have a very poisonous effect on me, in almost any context – regardless of the relationship I share with them or its importance in my life. For example, I have a roommate who is a pompous ass sometimes; he is the one that I refer to as the “good Bunkie” in my blog, a label based on a comparison between he and a former housemate, who was very un-good. This guy is one of my oldest friends and I love him dearly in spite of himself, I really do…however, the older we get, the more impossible he is for me to deal with. Granted, I have my own issues and that’s no secret; but I can say this about myself and my own issues with certainty: I DO NOT CONSCIOUSLY ALLOW MYSELF MISDIRECT MY ISSUES AT UNDESERVING BYSTANDERS.
The Good Bunkie has this super horribly annoying tendency to come home from work with some Gods damned chip on his shoulder about some random ass political or religious bullshit that he listened to on talk radio during his commute home; worse still – he wants to debate and argue over the meaningless garbage with his housemates – whichever one he happens upon first. When he does this to me, at the end of my own workday, I am overcome by an inclination to just fucking bite his face off. I mean, come on! There are people who barely know me that would be able to do that much of my fucking math, for fuck sake; I have REAL PROBLEMS in the REAL WORLD and PRESENT MOMENT…I could give a shit about whatever political or religious horseshit from Talk Radio Republic.That shit is all made up bullshit anyway, duh! Show me some solid evidence behind of the long horse shit that you’re bringing home to my ear, and we’ll debate about it maybe…fuck!

Let’s review just for fun:

1) Do I seem like a fucking church-goer to any of you? NO.
2) Do I put off the vibe that I am a fucking Republican? NO.
(Sorry, to any of my Republican readers)
3) Do I send out a message of being partial to the Rich White Folk? NO.
4) Do I seem like someone any of you would even WANT to argue politics with? FUCK NO.

So, yes…it drains me emotionally when this person who I share hearth and home with repeatedly comes home and tries to start in with his completely disinteresting, circus freak, political garbage debate with ME, of all people! The end result every time is the same: as soon as I recognize his shit, I say something like,
“C’mon seriously? Spare me, okay? I have no interest or desire in even having this conversation; I don’t need this bullshit on ANY day of ANY week, dude…fuck off!”, before shutting the door to my bedroom behind me as I go back in. Now I realize that anytime you have multiple people sharing a living space, things get a little edgy sometimes; that’s not lost on me by any means; I also try my damndest to stay out of everyone else’s way as often as possible for this reason – as to avoid unnecessary tension. That’s just how I roll: I mind my own business.
I am most often closed up in my room with earbuds in; I am typically the “house mouse”– this behavior of mine is nothing new or groundbreaking in my household, either…it’s always been this way. The Good Bunkie knows the cause of my PTSD, and has been more than “understanding” and “supportive”, for lack of more fitting descriptions – he has no appreciation behind the psychological mechanisms involved that have a physiological reaction attached to them – but he pities me because of the drastic changes he openly recognizes when he compares the ME of my youth to the ME that is now his housemate. For someone in my personal circumstances, having a roommate who is also a friend that I have so much water under the bridge with – is priceless; I am aware on a subconscious level that he poses no physical threat to me at any time. This is an element that I do not fool myself into thinking that I could find or cultivate with 9.5 out of 10 males in existence. I share it with my other roommate, The Orphan, as well – though for very different reasons and not as solidly; our friendship is young, in comparison. Point here is that I am for the most part happy as hell with my situation, but when this type of shit happens, it literally drains me of energy which isn’t healthy for me to be exposed to, especially so fucking unnecessarily and regularly.
I mean, I would NEVER go out of my way to instigate an unnecessary argument with him, or The Orphan for that matter…and it bothers me that he, especially given our longtime friendship and his knowledge of my current status in the fucking world I live in , DOES.