One might argue a lot of my previous blog was ranting. And I wouldn’t disagree. Well, not completely. I’d disagree because I’m half Vulcan and full partially on the spectrum and not everything is black and white. I was always trying to tell a story. I was always trying to share a part of myself. I was always trying to educate. But sometimes that was, in part, ranting. Funny thing, back then I was always sober. Now, hours and hours after half a pint of Jack, I don’t necessarily feel like ranting–but after walking to the store to pick up some veggies and telling myself I’d try to start writing around 10 to 11 every night before heading upstairs to watch old ER reruns, blah, blah, blah.
But I’m not going to rant. I’m going to share things I’d rant about if I were me twenty years ago ranting.
I’d rant about raising a kid for seven years, almost adopting her, and having it poisoned by her bitch of a lying mother who took emotional and financial advantage of me, poisoning the girl I raised so much that I’m shit outa $$$ I would have had, lost nearly a decade of my life where I could have sought out a “real” family, etc. That’s something I could easily rant on for thousands of pages here.
I’d rant about how it seems like every job I get sucks more than the one before. Yeah, I earn good money. Can’t complain about that. I work with a good team now. But really, besides those facts and that I can work from home, I hate my job. My first real job was at McDonald’s and you know what, while the pay was shit and the work was hard and the hours were long, I loved the people I worked with and the work was straight forward. Plus, when I left the job I left he goddamn job. My first professional job was working on video games and that was fucking awesome, but since then it’s been downhill. Granted, I’ve always worked for companies I could believe in (besides a 6 months gig at Columbia outfitter which paid off the bills)—but the jobs sucked more and more. Each move was to a team more dysfunctional than the last. Company politics became bigger and bigger. While I had Lyme I worked at a place where I’d be working 50 – 80 hours a week plus weekends—while sick as hell—and the last two years were for a dick head of a manager treating me like I didn’t do shit (“shit” is the alcohol talking—in reality, I have had times I wish a bus would run him over—but that’s definitely a rant/story people would be shocked by). Not to mention my last job, where I was hired to “build” a team only to be told a month later I was really hired to fire the team only to be eventually fired being told “You don’t fit the culture”—-kinda saw that coming at the thirty day mark but long-Lyme has a way of making you stick in.
A book could be devoted to those rants.
Autism. Oversharing. Masking. I literally told my wife tonight that we have six or seven round trip tickets to Europe and she looked at me like “Wha?” I’m like, “Seriously?” This is why I got the Gold card before we got married 11 years ago, so we could earn money for free tickets to see her family in the Netherlands every year or two. Did she think we stopped earning thousands on sky miles every months since COVID? I mean, I know something I don’t clearly communicate everything in our marriage, but really? She knew this. She misses her family. Did she really think I’m the one sitting around not wanting to fly over and visit her family? Last time I recall, last few times we headed over I spent a few days a week working remotely from her parent’s kitchen table so she could spend an extra two weeks with them. Sometimes I just want to fucking rant about that. Is she even paying attention?
Then there’s my mom. I love her. But I worry about her, especially since my dad died in 2021 (or so—fuck if I remember—dates don’t mean anything to me). She’s got so many friends, dozens more than I do, but she acts/feels like she’s alone. Spends too much money on junk. She’s been through a lot, don’t get me wrong, and all the most important people in her life have died (mom, dad, brother, husband, etc.), but she’s strong. I recognize part of my rant is selfish. She’s got so much more than I will ever have. Friends and support systems. My dad left here with so much cash she’ll never be wanting. She can fucking spend $8k to go to Australia on a whim and here I am knowing I owe more on my mortgage (thanks Lyme, thanks wife, thanks bitch who took my daughter, etc.) than I did when I bought the house. If I needed to talk with someone tonight I’d have nobody (my wife’s not exactly a skilled listener) but my mom has people around the world that would either Skype (retired) her or drop on by the house. And she wants a car. Me: She doesn’t need a new car; she just needs to take a breath and appreciate how much more she has than many of those around her. Yes, this is a personal, and very emotional rant. And not a very articulate one. But I’m not here to be understood tonight. I’m here to fucking rant.
Let’s see. Oh yeah. The whole Mirror Universe shit going on. You see, I’m convinced that many years ago, as I started to claw my way out of the Lyme hole, this disgusting human being named Trump came down an escalator and as he did he tripped, broke his neck, and died immediately. But the thing is, at that moment I slipped from Lyme into the (Star Trek) Mirror Universe where the only thing cool, except that girls belly button, was Evil Spock’s Goatee. Seems like since that moment everything’s gone upside down. The human race has thrown any semblance of logic and rationality (which it arguably never had in any abundance) away, traded for bullshit ideologies and superstition. I mean, fuck me, the President of the fucking United States gets online and on video every day jerking his willie and lying and bullshitting and at least 30% of American’s think a) this is normal, b) I’d jerk off to this too, or c) now I’ve gotta attack everyone that’s not in my tribal. Studied fascism, in particular Nazi Germany, for 25 years now, including traveling to cities like Bastogne, and I’ve spent the better part of the last five years warning Americans (I know) about what’s coming, and now that it’s here the people that need to be3 paying attention are the same people that would have been reporting on my father in law while he was alive as a little kid begging for and stealing food in Amsterdam in the early 1940’s (I believe he had a friend shot in the back by a Nazi for stealing a loaf of bread); needless to say before he died my father in law couldn’t believe Americans infatuation with Trump except for what it reminded him of as a child. And me? The only ways I can deal with it anymore is a) remind myself that I’m “half Vulcan and half human” and people’s irrationality has always befuddled me and b) accept that when you understand how things are, how they happen, how people work, how it’s all predictable—well, Buddhist mindset of just sit back and watch and fucking breath man.
The last (breath) part is some hippie stuff I picked up some time ago in Eugene.
Oh, I’d love to rant about my x-wife. Had Lyme. Was going to have surgery on my testicles. Went through hell bringing her groceries. Not cost. No guilt trips. But god my balls hurt, and the Lyme didn’t help. Still hurts thinking about it. She could have just sent me a card (she made those for Etsy) but she preemptively told me she wouldn’t be there to support me through the surgery. I didn’t even ask her for anything. Like WTF? Who does that? Yeah, someone with trauma, and much of it I caused. But really? I think I was there when it counted. And I got over most of my shit.
Demons, lol. The only ones are in ourselves.
Okay, what else don’t I rant and rave about that I don’t?
I need sex, drugs, and rock and roll. But who doesn’t? But then again, who is just honest about it? In my experience only swingers and polyamorous folks. Wish I were one, but that’s another subject. In terms of drugs, don’t care anymore. I drink from time to time, but frankly I probably wouldn’t if my emotional needs were met (and yes, I literally know the last time I was hugged and no, it wasn’t my wife, it was my manager at No Kings Day, no shit, and yeah, a bit fucked up right?). Rock and roll not so much, at least when inflammation is up, but I did listen to a bit in the Jag today. Yes, I own a used Jag. Yes, I could probably spend the money on other things. But hey, I can’t buy the things most people take for granted like family and community and affection. So I have a fucking jag. Sue me. Spectrum people gotta have something to keep their sanity.
Stupid rant: The last three weeks it’s been Friday on Tuesday, and by that I mean it’s been Monday and I work, then it’s Tuesday but it feel like it should be a Friday, then it’s a Wednesday that feels like a Friday and so on. Right now it’s a Thursday that feels like a Friday. Four years ago I would have gone out and gotten so shit faced I’d be out until the bar closed, then got up in time for worked, slammed down the coffee, and somehow pushed my way through despite the fact that hangovers at that level are about ten times worse for me than your normal 40 – 50 something. Inflammatory disorder so don’t fucking try to argue with me unless you have something akin to Lupus (I don’t, but my symptoms mimic that disease very closely, including the fact that the only medications that help aren’t ones they’ll give me, I.e. hydrocodone [which I don’t want] and prednisone [which I want daily and in large quantities—shit makes me feel 100% human again every single time].
Oh yeah, that’s a rant. I’ll go downhill for a year or two, end up in the ER (each time costing me thousands), they won’t find or do anything, back to the doc, they won’t do shit, but if someone throw oral steroids at me I’m back to feeling like a 30 year old in less than a week. No more sore throat. No more fucked up sleep. No more SEVERE autistic symptoms like speech disorders or echophfnia. Muscle pain: gone. Memory issues: gone. Fatigue: Gone. But not a single doctor will ask, “Why?” Nope. They’ll just ignore me and toss me forward (same as when I had Lyme). It’s never, “Ohhhhh, something’s wrong with you, we should figure it out,” it’s, “Ohhhh, well, I’m glad that helped, but long term steroid use is dangerous but I have better things to do.” As of today I literally have to more pills which I’m saving to the weekend. Saturday. I know it’s going to help enormously for two days, after which I expect things to go downhill. Then I’m going to lay in bed at night slowly loosing my mind wishing I was still in touch with the doctor that first diagnosed and helped me with my Lyme (he’s in Colorado now, last I heard). That’s the worst part, as the inflammation goes up, as memory and other cognitive skills go down, you start loosing it, getting anxious, going in circles in your head wanting someone, anything, doctors, family, angles to help, but knowing, from experience, nobody will do shit to help. Can’t even get an Etsy card. Fuck the world. I’ve honestly felt that at times.
Rant about myself: I know some things I know I need to do to get better and live a longer life. One, stop drinking (although I’ve cut down dramatically). Two, stop smoking. No excuse there expect my brain is 100% addicted (and when I try to stop I could end up on the ER). Three, eat less. I have, frankly, started eating much healthier. Vegetables every day now. Steamed. Always have been drinking water all day, all day long, every day. I piss like a horse. God, the amount of water I waste flushing the toilet constantly, lol. But to my credit I’m afraid. I’m afraid that if I get my shit completely together I’m going to be done with a lot of things. I’ll be done with my marriage. I’ll do a reverse mortgage on my house and just go out and see the world and be done with working until all the money is spent then live in a tent somewhere in Wyoming under some snowy mountain until I freeze to death (taking pictures of it, hopefully film, which will be found and eventually developed—hopefully the only set of dick pics I’ve ever taken, mostly as a joke, because no one will ever find this blog again and know I was at least a somewhat serious person that never took dick pics).
Another rant. I used to sleep in just my underwear. And not these boxers, but those other things, whatever bikini whatever you call it underwear. I stopped doing that shortly after I got married. Not because my wife is a prude. But because she’s uncomfortable with her body and her sexuality. That happened in the first couple months. Most people are subconsciously affected by shit like this but I’m empathic and autistic. I’m not just influenced by highly aware of how other people are affecting my behavior. Sorta sucks. I used to be uncomfortable with my body image. Now I just hate it. Thanks.
My new car, by the way, has issues. Dealership I dealt with for over a decade, many buys and sells, wasn’t entirely honest about the vehicle they sold me, so I’m struggling to find a part that’s probably pretty cheap, but having trouble gettin the part and the speedy insurance I got to cover such things (surprise) doesn’t cover this part. Fortunately, I was able to remove the broken part in 30 seconds today, but I need a replacement. But the main dealership (full of snooty people that usually want to deal with $500k+ customers) didn’t call me back. Ideally, I’d love to have a couple shots of Jack before going in and talking with them (tomorrow). A couple shots and I feel like a neurotypical who can talk and be blunt, just walk in, put my part on the counter, say hey, you said you’d call back, this is what I need, I know I don’t have as much makeup on as you, I don’t look as built as the guys that usually walk in here, but can you FUCKING TALK TO YOUR TECH AND ASK IF THEY HAVE ONE IN STOCK? Because I have $200 to pay for it. Then walk out to my care, install it in their parking lot in 30 seconds, and scream back, “Thanks for not charging me $500 bucks for that thirty seconds!” Yes, that’s the one thing I do not like about owning a “luxury” (used) car: they dealerships want to charge you hundreds of dollars for what’s literally thirty seconds of work a fucking monkey can do.
Rant.
I’ve got a couple more under my belt. Please hold. I had them in my mind when I was out smoking. Well, I guess I better go finish my smoke then. Or check if Buster is upstairs.
Please hold…
Weird rant, at least to me. This idea of victimhood. Likes it’s bad. Me? I think we’ve all been heroes. And victims. And instigators. Maybe it’s my buddhist side. To believe we’re always the hero is bullshit. If we do, it’s our own personal story. These are all perceptive, subjective terms. Fuck that shit. You can be all of them and be none of them at the same time. It all teaches us.
In a fight with my best friend growing up. I had a melt down. Well, not a complete one, but he wasn’t listening, so maybe I made him had a melt down before I signed off. Clues were there. Word “ghosting” came up. And I didn’t when we were sophomores in high school as he suggested, but I don’t want to get in a fight over it. I did ghost him when we were 18 or 19, but that’s another thing. Was a time I’d try to resolve that ASAP. I’d take a week off of work to do so. But learned, since then, that not everyone works on this autistics timeline. So don’t know if he’s hurt, distancing, ghosting, sick, his cat died, something, other, or whatever. One thing that chronic health issues have given me is patience: I don’t have the whatever it is I always had before to FORCE resolutions ASAP (because all y’all neurotypicals are too goddamn slow). I have to fight to get through every goddamn work day and by the time I get to the weekend I don’t have time for this shit, I just want to go take pictures and win the lottery and get some vegan tacos at a vegan strip club I can’t afford. But yes, I’d like to resolve this shit, and there’s 51 years of potential shit to resolve, but it’ll happen if and when it happens, and at least that’s not something to rant about because it’s the first time I’ve been able to say that.
What else do I have to gripe about? I know, I know, you’re tired of it, but this is the gripe blog entry, so hold your horses.
Be right back.
Being on the spectrum and no one, including your wife, really acknowledging you are, despite a lifetime of experiences.
On a related note, knowing you could have a Go Fund Me where you offer to teach rich people about the world, showing them things that would open and blow their minds, but knowing if you made that Go Fund me no one would respond. I keep thinking about it. But it’s stupid. So what the hell.
I am really pissed that my drinking hole died shortly after COVID. Good people. Good food. Good drinks. Relaxing. I could just have a couple and come home and feel relaxed. But the owners fucked it up and sold it off, now, if and when I do go out, I go out to the nearby dive bar that doesn’t even deserve the name of a “dive” bar. A few years ago I’d actually meet people and have conversations. But it’s gotten even worse. Snooty. Drunken. Stupid. Granted, take my wife anywhere and anyone talks to her for hours, if she lets them. Related rant, nobody does that with me and despite me telling her this for YEARS she doesn’t hear me say how lonely I am.
Speaking of…I do believe that some aspects of loneliness can be quantified. And that’s largely why I got into the “fight” with my best (male) friend earlier this week. I think he started to see it as a comparison: my loneliness vs. his. Frankly, honestly, I don’t know his experience. We literally hadn’t been in touch for nearly 30 years. I don’t know what he’s been through. I just know what it’s like to be abandoned by someone nearly every year of my life since the first grade. In Technicolor. Clearly. I remember a decade in Eugene where nearly every day was wake up, go to school, study, study, and sleep. I went on ONE date in those ten years (which I probably ranted about in my other blog at some point, mainly because I didn’t appreciate being ghosted before that was a thing and confronted her about it). I know what it’s like to spend ten years with Lyme and barely being able to function, wishing someone would just tune in and maybe help me go out and pick up groceries, but having to do it myself, and when I did just acting tough because my parents brought me up on a farm and you learn to be tough and because I was autistic and that teaches you to mask so even if you feel like you’re going to faint in the cereal isle you don’t because you’re parents, even if they never said it, taught you not to be a “pussy” (term pulled from my small town childhood, not necessarily from my parent’s vocabulary). Digress. Want to resolve things with him. Don’t know where to start. Not going to change my view on the fact that loneliness can be quantified in some respects. Social capital is a thing. Social skills are a thing. And when you have those things, you’re not as fucked as say, a socially awkward anxious person with Lyme disease trying to hold onto their job and their house.
Also, that fucking bitch ignored me at the UofO when I said hi. Well, ignored is a polite term. She did that in high school too (never did that with him, though did that with me while within a foot of me). She made me feel like I had lepracy (sp?) and I’ve thought that for decades. I get the whole perception thing. He never thought that of her. But she treated me worse than most people from my high school years and even for that short moment afterwards. What did I do to her? Only thing I can figure out is I wasn’t tall, dark, and handsome.
Our brains are funny things. And I think my Buddhist/austistic self has grown, because if she wanted to talk with me today and listen, I’d tell her my experience, and if she want yeah okay I get it I’d be like oh yeah okay I’m fine and that would be it. But it is not, in my experience, within the realm of neurotypicals to do such things. Like I said, I’m not just in the Mirror Universe, but I don’t expect miracles anymore. People are people. People are mammals. People are animals. And people, in my experience, do not change (significantly).
Not related to rants, I miss the one person I’ve met in the last fifteen years who seemed to have their shit together. I might still be in touch, but drama, obligations, and stupidity, on both the part of the human race and myself.
Smoke…
But you know what I hate most? I hate that I know what I know to get my shit together. But like so many of you I’m afraid. I’m afraid if I stop smoking, stop drinking, eat good, go to the gym every day and get in shape, I’m going to shake up my life. I’m going to shout out loudly to everyone that, “I’ve got my shit together” after which I’m not going to comfort, I’m not going to mask, I’m not going to play games anymore. I’m going to work when I want, sleep when I want, dance when I want, sleep with who I want, and spent the next ten or twenty years of my life enjoying myself and not constantly thinking about how everyone else wants me to live in a box. And I’m tired of living in boxes. But I don’t. I won’t. Because I’m scared. This life is not one where it’s safe not to live in boxes. People will attack you (which I’ve learned from experience). You’ll loose whatever lose social support systems you do have. You’ll end up alone. I mean, if you have charisma you won’t, but I’m fucking on the spectrum, I’m different, I’m weird, I’m someone people look out of the corners of their eyes at and judge. Maybe I should. Maybe I shouldn’t.
What I do know: tomorrow is Friday and I have to get up and work. And then I have a weekend where I’ll feel like death or I won’t—well, I won’t—I have two prednisone left. And then?
Sometimes I want to say fuck this bullshit but I’ve moved on from that.
No ranting tomorrow night. Probably something about cats or movies or what I’m looking forward to this weekend.
Take care. Cheers. Reach out. Sleep tight. And goodnight.
Aslyinn