The ego has nothing to do with reality. Therefore, one must learn not to take things so “personally.” After all, it’s not about you, it’s all about me, buddy.
Of course, the hypocrisy within such a belief may be evident– but it is also an everyday reality. One may allow themselves to be sucked into this type of a character death fall.
Happy V-Day or not, whatever.
Practice your best Samuel L. Jackson impression of being “tired of all these motherf*ckin'” zombies on a plane:
Once upon a real reality, yours truly would find myself locked in a frustration-filled bout that, eventually, would defeat and topple the old me. The aforementioned fact is not something I am proud of, as attention whoredom has never been a part of my “deal.” Yet, the consideration craved would not be from friends wishing to offer encouragement that better days lie ahead for the then-present train-wreck shit show, known as me.
No, the coveted audience was one particular, specific person, but none of my narratives would ever hit the eyes of the intended target. Hopes of feelings understood would turn to frustration, frustration to periods of upset, and so forth and so on the downward spiraling evolution would continue. The entire situation was a set-up.
Someone trusted saw an opportunity to wield secrets-shared as an offensive weaponized tactic. In the end, the ploy was merely a means to derive a desireable cold-hearted excuse for one’s preferred d-baggery.
In hindsight, my initial mess up, a mistake turned sword to slay that which is me. For later, the errors made would be admitted to with attempted apologizes to clarify my previous position would certainly not read on in as an adequate manner. That’s right, yours truly would not be given the time to use my “real” voice to plead my case. Instead, all my efforts, every single one… would be met with chirp, chirp, and more chirps of nothingness.
Certainly, there must have been some underlying or hidden intent– and yep, like a sucker, I fell for it, dupe annihilation.
Along the way, I would realize the error of my ways, the mistake of allowing another person to pull my strings and choose my attitude as a means of exploitation.
Now, I choose my attitude, no more falling victim to the same trick. For it then, and only then, my power would be reclaimed to rise above whatever troubles may come my way. I encourage and remind all those that may find themselves in a similar situation– YOU ARE NOT ALONE. There are many of us, less than perfect, living this world without a pamphlet– WE MAKE MISTAKES. But some, like myself, refuse to stay down, to give up, or to ever quit on one’s self– always keep pushing, hang in there until better days come along.
As a wise man once said:
The night of the fight, you may feel a slight sting. That’s pride fucking with you. Fuck pride. Pride only hurts, it never helps.
Typically, this is the crushing finale that wishes to impart some sort of grand lesson learned or wisdom. A self-pretentious opportunity for utilizing the standard lines of chipperness that are commonly accepted, seem happy enough, and most importantly– encourage said complainer to shut the f*ck up. It is within the end of whining, the sage can get back to talking about “more important things” such as themselves or those new shoes they simply “must” have. One should never trust those relying upon the simplest narratives to purify and pacify, for these tactics are not helpful, they do not work. It’s all a means to allow another to feel good about themselves while encouraging someone to shut the f*ck up.
As for me… I did not learn jack shit. If anything, an old axiom that applies would be “there are three sides to every story: mine, yours, and the truth.” Well, that would be correct, except only my side of the story has ever been presented to me. Hence, it seems only natural that my side + complete silence = the truth is whatever I wish it to be. My reality is time does not heal all wounds as I remain hollow but yet not bitter.
For I awake each day doing my best to keep chugging along (while not being a dick) with an internal hollowness which makes it more difficult to arise from the “right side” of the bed.
My hollowness stems from the discovery that I do not matter in the eyes of a once-believed bonded confidant and friend. Despite not being dead, yours truly was discarded, ignored, and dismissed as if I were. Being one slow to open up to others, it took a while to let the aforementioned person in, then shortly later– out of nowhere, KAPUT. That fact really sucks. However, it does not impact my view of the world or of others as I realize one person’s assholishness is 100% on them and nobody else. In this particular case, I am not even bitter toward this a-hole– because yours truly is not the one that actually sucks. For some unexplained reason, this guilt-free knowledge of not being in the wrong seems to make the day a tad bit brighter.
Hmm, if there is a moral to the tale, it might be, no matter what happens in life– try not to suck.
Greetings and salutations, friends, strangers, and enemies alike, welcome to 5 Random Thoughts. Yours truly cannot promise each thought will apply or be of interest to every reader, but can promise at least one or two points made will resonate with most folks (always got that one unimpressed “guy” better known as the dick in the crowd).
Get over yourself. Whatever the problem might be, just get over yourself. That is not to say one should accept all the shit that comes their way nor is to make light of legitimate life problems and challenges. There are certainly lots of struggles in the world, some such struggles may seem or be too much for one person to handle, it happens to the best of people, it’s the grim face of life. BUT the point is THIS– whatever problem or challenge one faces, do not allow yourself to be your own biggest obstacle in overcoming these harsh realities.
Yours truly may not be a “doctor” but I am a DR and that counts for something. Here’s the deal, to those too uptight, too hard and non-believers of their own self– STOP THAT SHIT. Garbage in = Garbage out, dumb dumb. Sorry for the name calling, but think of it as a necessry attention getter. Accept your own limitations, that’s a must, but never sell yourself short, okay? Do not be afraid of failure, as it happens, but one can never succeed without facing up to the possibility of rejection. Stop being so uptight.
Conversely, to those that are not focused enough to commit to doing things they claim they wish to do in life– stop f*cking around and get to work.
For instance, if one wishes to be a lawyer or a rodeo clown or a professional jizz mopper– it takes time, effort, and work– as most things do not magically just happen overnight. In other words, if wishing to reach a given objective, taking any step forward to meet that aspiration = one step closer to achieving the desired end game. Sorry for being all preachy, but the whole point of this particular thought is an internal balance, find your own “sweet spot” between the drunk and uptight versions of yourself and go kick some ass, won’t you?
The following is an example of yours truly punching upward to support a fellow writer in response to the following tweet:
It takes massive guts to put one's self out there to be continuously rejected, Most cannot cope with such reality, but it's what the writer knows is a harsh, seemingly never ending truth. How one copes, conquers rejection will later be used to define their greatness.
Enough of my self-righteous bullshit, at least until the bitter end
Lately, I have been stumbling upon a whole slew of really interesting or funny writings. Of all the wonderful works, phrases, and humorous ponderings, there is only “one.” The funniest/best/most fantastic phrase that pays of my recent read ramblings is…
“You sir are an unsung hero! Good for you for taking one for the team and fucking that poor disfigured woman.”
This is a random user comment inside a much larger conversation (I will send the link upon request but otherwise, ya gotta find such wonderful treasure yourself!)
For whatever it is worth, that dude’s comment is both applicable, and his conclusion is surprisingly correct. Remember to tell those oft-forgotten unsung heroes, “Thank you for taking one for the team, boss.”
Please allow me to make something explicitly clear since there is no more Google connection, and people do not buy shit from TheDR.World or any of my few, basically free, sponsors– I no longer care all that much about being entertaining, informative, or inspirational to anyone, more or less, but myself. That is not a complaint, only a mere reminder that IF I’m gonna work for free or to pay for it… then, I’m gonna enjoy doing so, my way. Like it, love it, or hate it– whatever, that is cool. Be love, be hate, just please do not be indifferent or dull.
Very Bad Things. Dedicated to the unknown dude that shook my world as he(she) mowed down my neighbor’s tree early in the morning while totaling his own sweet Floridan-tagged ride.
As I encroached the vehicle, I swear, the deployed passenger airbag looked like a dude’s head. But turns out, despite a busted windshield, a blaring radio, and the vehicle doors closed– there was nobody in the car. Poof. I’m sure there is a good rest of the story, but I don’t know what that is but shall assume it shall always remain a mystery.
As for the movie, Very Bad Things, is a grand display of the butterfly effect that stems from horrible choices. Despite receiving terrible reviews and being overlooked by most of humanity, the 1998 movie is often viewed as being a hollow mean-spirited cinematic failure.
Sure, there are noticeable gaffes within the movie both visually and within the plot-line. Also, to casual viewing, the film might seem as if it is a simple narrative of cold-hearted brutality. Despite such limitations, examination of a keen eye will oft-reveal Very Bad Things is a great telling of relatively decent folk led astray by their individual flaws. As not to spoil the movie for the yet to view but now curious types, the whole greatness to Very Bad Things is the snowball effect gained through an initial lack of personal courage to do the “right” thing.
IF, at any time, any character chose to display some true courage, everything else that follows would be null and void. That my friends, that is a good moral tale.
Other off the radar movies yours truly enjoys, just a partial list, includes Rushmore, Heathers, 12 Monkeys, Death to Smoochy, and Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind.
***It must be noted, movies like Fargo grew on me over time, but The Crying Game, still sucks, just my personal belief, nothing less, nothing more. ***
To stick with the movie theme, yours truly recently wrote to one of the fellows overseeing a proposed remake. To those that guessed the flick to be The Toxic Avenger, that would be a BINGO! The purpose of my message to the producer was my explicit desire to be a part of the re-writing of the eventual new release (oh, it will come). Of course, I have not received any response to my request, but who cares? It is a passion project and one of only 2 movies I would ever consider being a part of any reboot. The other movie, would be Natural Born Killers, period.
A Natural Born Killers remake. Conceptually, the movie is wonderful. The script was written by none other than Quentin Tarantino and stars Woody Harrelson, Juliette Lewis, and wonderful guest appearances from big time stars. The main reason a reboot would work, in my view, is the choice of Oliver Stone as the film’s director. Stone seemed to understand the underlying theme of Tarantino’s masterpiece but he fails in visually capturing the essence of the plot. Unfortunately, there is one great detriment the original would have over any future remakes– Rodney Dangerfield. Mr. Dangerfield is perfectly cast as the main female antagonist’s abusive rapist father. It would be dang near impossible to find anyone else to play that part any better than Rodney Dangerfield.
The following was originally posted on TheDR.World Facebook page, but it seems worthy enough to share:
I just heard the news that my cousin died from his cancer. In times of tragedy, words seem hollow, non-helpful, non-necessary.
In this particular case, I always liked my cousin & his twin sister, yet, there’s nothing for me to say that would matter. Personally, I continue to watch memories of my childhood continue to grow more distant, broken and dismembered by the reality of time, distance, and life itself. But this situation is not about me, for that, I do know.
In the spirit of my cousin, his family, and all his loved ones, I wish to simply ask folks to be proactive in taking care of themselves, whether that’s through routine physical checkups or seeking mental health assistance. Please do the best you can, while you can, for both yourself, family, and your loved ones. Thank you.
The 1980s would be the best of times, the worst of times a pivotal decade of transition between the 1970s free-loving hippies discovering what truly matters most in life: Money is everything, greed is good, nothing is free.
It was during the 1980s that the yesteryear hippy would find their authentic yuppy selves. Apparently, the hippies only wanted “free-love” when they were high and did not have the money to purchase top-shelf poontang. Once they got their youthful fill of drugs and “free love” they would enjoy their right to play hard on their earned yachts, which could only get upgraded by taking the “fair share” from future generations. A “war on drugs” would conveniently begin to fill the increasing for-profit prison systems, a liveable minimum wage would grow into an unreasonable demand, and anyone that dare complain against such systemic greed would be easily shouted down as spilled milk of whining “socialists.”
The eighties would also see the phasing out of the bell-bottom pants and the Burt Reynolds/Ron Jeremy/Magnum P.I. bear-hair man rug chests. The classic handsome fur-man would be overtaken by the pretty headed mulleted chap showing off shaved dude breasts and tummy tums by wearing their far too comfortable cropped, half shirts.
Do not laugh ladies, for the 80s woman was no better.
It was all too common to see the 1980s matrons in active competition to grow their towering hair of Babylons to the sky, kept in place, with so much hairspray that it broke the Ozone layer. Plus, a typical sight from the eighties lady was the pancake of so much makeup, one would often be left to wonder if she was either on her way to a costume party or on her way home from some kind of freakish Crayola gangbang (yeah, that was not a typo, you read it correctly).
Throughout the decadent decade, a wall would fall, significant explosions would occur, and the omen to the 1990s kids would be seen by the 1980s death of a dreamer.
The music of the day was a fine representation of the era metamorphosis. The 1980s saw a vast explosion of music with the invention of something known as MTV. Video would kill the radio star, with an explosion– a new music revolution was everywhere, to even include the cartoons. The reconstruction began as a “Celebration” as everything was all Kool and The Gang… but by the 1990s, only those to expect the roses were those that also held the guns. The newest generation of youth would learn along the discovery to Nirvana, a harsh lesson of an “I Hate Myself and Wanna Die” reality.
One of the better known “rock” cartoons remains the 1980s Jem and The Holograms.
Jem and her crew were supposed to be the stars of the show, but let’s be honest, their songs were weak, pretentious, and lame fluffy tunes meant for a mindless group of sameness. With songs such as It Depends on the Mood I’m In, Believe/Don’t Believe, Beat This, Truly Outrageous, and I Believe in Happy Endings, Jem and the Holograms reveal the nature of their soulless rah-rah lyrical blandness.
NOTE: Believe, don’t believe, I too believe in happy endings far more truly outrageous, so J & the H-grams can beat this.
To further solidify how terrible the band is, what kind of group calls itself “the Holograms” when it features blood and guts people? Oh, perhaps the Hologram label is a clever way to say– it is all about Jem, the bandmates do not matter as they are all the same, so who cares? Jem, Jem, Jem, she is the one star, Jem is the gem.
Anyone familiar with the show knows Jem’s “rock” group was anything but. Their songs were pop at best, and hell, the Jem “theme” song featured verses such as:
Jem (Jem is excitement) Ooh, Jem (Jem is adventure) Ooh (glamour and glitter, fashion and fame) Jem (Jem is truly outrageous, truly, truly, truly outrageous) Whoa, Jem (Jem), the music’s contagious (outrageous) Jem is my name, no one else is the same Jem is my name
Unlike the “heroic” self-absorbed, Jem, the Misfits made it clear; they are a group. A collection of outcasts hell-bent on defeating the fake, phony, pretentious, good girl fraudster known as Jem. True to their word, through lyrical honesty and diverse melodies, the Misfits songs are better than Jem’s.
Unlike the fluffy-lyrics of Jem, the Misfits songs had attitude, real lyrics, and most importantly were honest. The Misfits were the same hard-edged, bad-ass chicks off stage as they were on. Like Michael Bolton on Michael Bolton, that’s how TheDR.World celebrates the entire musical catalog of The Misfits, so, there is no way yours truly can list only 10 great songs. Therefore, TheDR.World will utilize someone else’s list… without further ado:
There it is, the list of 10 best songs from the Misfits. Please do not be shy to share your opinions on Jem, the Holograms, the Misfits, and the Top 10 list.
To anyone disappointed the list of Misfits in this writing is not the punk band from Lodi, New Jersey– do not fret, do not fear, TheDR.World is going to hook ya up too. However, the next list will not be just a straight forward top-10 list. Nah, that’d be too easy, too bland, and frankly, some bullshit a Jem-type writer might try to pull on the reader, just like the Misfits over Jem, theDR.World’s writing is better.
Speaking of better, either get to finding something for V-D or learn to BangGood. Enjoy
In November 2016, I was notified of the death of my only sibling, my younger sister, Lisa. The exact reason for her death remains a mystery, her autopsy report confirms this fact. Nonetheless, what is not debatable, certainly no mystery is the grim reality that misery and loss surround us all.
The truth is, our finale, no matter who we are nor how we live– will result in the same end, an identical result– death. To most, the fear of one’s eventual doom may overwhelm– but so what? There’s not a damn thing one can do to avoid the inescapable, so why bother? A more terrifying focus of one’s energy may be better spent facing the reality of never having been alive.
What was that excuse again?
Not enough money? Not enough time? Don’t wish to miss this week’s episode of a favorite show? Whatever it is that might occupy one’s livelihood, understand– each and every trade-off has consequences. Also, understand, if one trades everything to be a vagabond, a world traveler, a rover of great curiosity to explore and chase a dream, well it too comes with a unique price.
A lifetime of choices, decisions, and actions that one hope will ultimately lead to somewhere wonderful, fantastic… and perfect– but, face it, pal, there is no “perfect” life. There is no one right way to live. No matter what one does, at some point, there will be a realization, a moment of regret, a strong desire to have a “do over.”
I get it & come to know
When facing death, looking the end right in the eye, most folks will not think to themselves, “Damn, I wish I’d have spent more time in the office, worked harder, and enjoyed life less than I did.” Nope. What matters in the end, is to have been more available, to not have lived a life traveling one definitive road, to have been more impulsive, while at the same time, not overly impulsive. So, please, remember– perspective.
In full disclosure
There is a distinct difference between me, Darrell Roberts, the human and the writer.
Me the human
The “real” Darrell is guarded, low-key, and protective of my relationships, my experiences, my shared secrets, and the day to day life operations of my world. As I see it, if someone wishes to “know” the real me– take the energy, the time, and interest.
Those brave or intrigued enough to do so will likely learn a whole lot about the life and times of a simply complicated person and his beautifully ugly tragic feel-good life story. However, most people, at least in this day and age, are more interested in doing other things. As a result, they don’t worry about the likes of me, I can respect such a choice, no problem.
Me the writer
First, as a writer, few people believe you are any different than all the other wannabe-jamokes trying to be a success in something you definitely suck at. Blah blah blah, words– who gives a f*ck? Get a “real” job, you lazy dick. Or something along those lines, it’s easy to see that look on their face. Certainly, to an extent, they are correct– many people overestimate their uniqueness, their talents, and ability to do something they are not cut out to accomplish. I get it.
Yet, here’s the thing, one either has something to say and is constantly gifted by a muse to write something uniquely different, wonderful, and provide a gift to the world or they do not. Those that do not, they flame out, they end up moving on to doing something else.
After writing over 200 published works in the past year and a half, the challenge of one-upping your previous works is one that seems improbable, impossible, but also a test to find out and prove your endless divinity to produce a work that is even better than before, this time will be your “best.” That best… well, it never comes, so the process continues onward.
Over time, some may give into the easy pressure of popularity– just write some easy, oversimplified, popular motivational words, tales– that although welcomed and lauded, are really just empty bullshit. These writers do not feel it, they just write what they know will play well as a means to make money or to stoke their ego.
That’s not me.
My muse is a struggle, there are stories to tell, there are those that need my assistance, need to hear my words, they need my help. To me, what defines a writer is not money, not fan followings, it is not being told how great you are, it’s all about making at least one reader feel something they did not feel before. Whether that “something” is anger, happiness, sadness, or inspiration– well, that’s not ultimately my decision, but at the same time, it is.
More times than not, my creativity or muse is enough to tell a story effectively, as there is just enough, a glimpse, of my inner being injected into my words to create a remarkable written product. It’s a struggle within me to battle and conquer the fear of bleeding on the page. Some writings, such as this one, require a guarded, low-key fellow to expose his true self– to be vulnerable, to be a possible subject of ridicule, and perhaps, whether fair or not, to face judgments, and prejudices.
As a writer, sometimes there is no choice, one must be authentic, truly an open book, to be effective, to reach the ultimate goal, especially when trying to help others. Why would anyone take advice or feel inspired by someone that lacks the guts to be honest and truthful?
To the would-be writers, if one thinks superior cleverness wordology aided by deception tactics will dupe readers into buying fake authenticity, good luck– because that BS ain’t gonna happen. The master reader sees right through a phony, they also can spot the exceptional, the original, the genuine writers.
A true story
Recently, in a relatively impulsive moment, yours truly would decide to take a visit to one of my favorite places that remains determined to kill me– upstate New York. For whatever reason, from Syracuse and areas northward have to ALWAYS go out of the way to fuck with me, it’s just how it is. Odd enough, upon my arrival into Syracuse, the overcast skies gave way to the sun making a for perfect New York day.
A short drive later, I would be meeting my daughter for a few days of Popz/Queen time.
The time spent together was wonderful, meaningful, and worth the risk of once again facing the ‘Cuse curse. A few non-intrusive highlights include me and my baby watching some of my favorite and still morally relevant episodes of The Twilight Zone.
Inside a common dollar story, we would even encounter a really pissed off lady yelling at an old dude attempting to operate the cash register. “Faster you old jerk, I’m late for work, scrub,” Ms. Pissy yelled.
Proud me would talk the fiery dame down, even getting her to lighten up a little bit. Odd enough, the angry woman was my kinda bitch (if you know what I mean). As I told Ms. Pissy, “If I was from this town, I think we’d be friends.”
The fortunate days shared with my daughter were needed and appreciated. However, due to previous commitments, on the day of my departure, I had to fly out at Zero-way too early in the AM dark thirty. Therefore, I chose to take a brief evening nap, then enjoyed a few hours final hours of my Queen’s company. When she went to bed, I chose to remain awake, packed up my stuff, and then sat thinking a bit before hitting the road back to the Syracuse airport.
During the stillness of the final night of my visit, an overwhelming sadness would course through me. I was already beginning to miss my daughter. Still, even worse, the years past of rarely being able to see her all came crashing down. My chest tightened, anxiety grew as it became difficult to breathe, the moment was a sad reminder of regret, remorse, and wishing to have a “do over.” Recognizing the emotional significance, I pulled out my pen, paper and wrote my daughter a letter. This letter would await her when she awoke, after my departure.
With her permission, I will share that letter. Honestly, per our conversation, I felt my baby girl would be more disappointed if I did not share the note from her popz.
Ladies and Gentleman, again with her permission:
A Popz message to a Queen
My Queen. You are & will always be my Queen, the love of my life, the greatest love of my life. Thank you for your time, it was great seeing you, being around you.
It makes me sad to leave. It makes me sad to have missed so many days of your life. For that, I will always be sad, always be sorry. It was never anything I wanted, every day hurt, made me sad. I would give anything to have done everything different. You are a fantastic young lady & I am proud to be your popz.
Unfortunately, time only moves forward, as such, I wish for you to know– I would do anything for you, I love, I adore, & I cherish each & every day I’m lucky enough to be your popz. You are a beautiful spirit living in an ugly world; please do not let the world get you down, always keep being you– the beautiful spirit, the most wonderful Queen.
Andrea, I hope you find the happiness you want & deserve in this life. Never give up on yourself or your dreams. I love you most of all, my Queen.
Forever & proud to be your popz,
I love my Queen– Popz
The moral of the story is– nobody is perfect, not you, not me, none of us.
We all make mistakes, have regrets, and deal with our remorse, pains, and struggles in various and likely different ways. What matters most is not the past, it’s the now, it’s tomorrow, the following tomorrow, and the days after each of us are lucky enough to have until our grand finale. This moment, RIGHT NOW, is within our control. Sure, there will likely always be barriers and outside influences, but each of us should choose our own attitude and personal desired destiny.
So, as Thanksgiving approaches, do yourself a favor– take the time to forgive someone that may have wronged you in the past. Even if the offender is not sorry, or if you cannot or choose not to contact the forgiven-to-be– still pardon them inside your mind, heart. Do it not for them, but for yourself.
Nothing is guaranteed, take the time to tell those that matter most how you feel about them, while you still can. After all, life is short, the days are numbered, the passing of each day is one step closer to the end.
Thank you for your time.
Popz loves his Queen.
A DR plea:
Attention one & all. Tis the season to feel good about yourself.
Please consider doing me a solid & helping out one of my favorite people, a lifelong friend, and a wonderful human being. Obviously, I understand some might not be able to make a monetary donation, but every little bit helps. As such, you can still spread the word, far & wide, just by spending a few minutes out of your day to treat someone the way you’d like to be treated. Thank you for both your time & consideration.
Friends, strangers, new friends to be– Greetings and salutations.
The world is a chaotic, a turbulent place:
‘Tis the season for the misery within to say, “Hello.”
Perhaps, he/she/they broke up with you to avoid making any Thanksgiving plans?
Or maybe it was to circumvent having to go through that whole ordeal of picking out and buying gifts, or whatever sham reason that might be thrown around to avoid having to be around you– during the encroaching months of despair? Who knows?
Relax, it’s not you– it really is them. Remember that.
Sure, the likely reason could be you were tossed away for the smell of new lady vag-jay-jay or man-dick, but relax, at least it’s not your fault. Besides, now you too will have the minty nice newness, fresh virginal whoredom scent surrounding your presence to attract the scandalously curious in your direction. Thus, knocking over another relationship domino in the neverending saga known as– nobody seems to be able to remain monogamous, truthful, or can even be taken for their word any longer. Which makes one wonder… was it ever wise to trust a majority of folks?
After all, Ben Franklin did enjoy banging his hookers, while on Little House on The Prairie, Nels did secretly hate his wife, Harriet, and not long ago, that chick did tell Biz Markie some other man-meat was “just a friend.” BUT, You say he’s just a friend, join the DR and Mr. Markie, COME ON SING ALONG:
BABY– You, you got what I need but you say he’s just a friend
And you say he’s just a friend, oh baby
You, you got what I need but you say he’s just a friend
But you say he’s just a friend, oh baby
You, you got what I need but you say he’s just a friend
But you say he’s just a friend
Straight from the scenes of Maury, in the case of that dude being “just a friend”– the lie detector determined… that was a lie.
Universal disappointment, notwithstanding, the DR is here to bring cheer, a little joy, and knowledge to assure the masses a simple message– shit happens. Hang in there, eventually, maybe, karma will step up and have your back.
Speaking from experience, years ago, yours truly was in a long-term, on/off again relationship. Eventually, the on/off part led to the relationship becoming a triangle. Of course, my decision was easy– get away and do something or someone else, and never look back.
Turns out, 100% true, her karma would come via the new guy, the not me dude, running her over and leaving her for dead.
To the surprise of no one that knows this chick, she did not die. Nope. Instead, she turned the experience into a money-making venture. Recently, she put out an online seminar surrounding her ordeal, it was not a bad presentation. Most importantly, knowing her, the room was full, in her own words– KA-CHING! (No, I will not link to the presentation, as to why will be revealed a little later in this writing.)
The main reason for my interest in watching the taped performance was due to the simple ego, to see if my name was mentioned. Directly, it was not. However, she did discuss a shared experience and I was referred to as “an ex-partner.”
All things considered, that was nice of her.
The recount featuring me was of a real-life barrier being in the way, she needed help and yours truly would come along, as she said, to “save the day.” Obviously, in her version of the story, I would fail, but she somehow would rely upon magic or such, and for some reason or another, everything would work out.
No worries, it is an accepted fact, she has, likely will always have a sweet spot in her heart for DR. Whereas, she will also always have a soft spot on her head and mended broken body parts from that other dude, for you know, having run her ass over.
So, who would ya rather be? Me the “ex-partner” that comes to “save the day” or the dude that runs a chick over and goes to jail?
Think about it.
What may appear, at first, as a loss might end as a– FLAWLESS VICTORY.
Let that tale serve as a fair warning spiel to the women. Ladies be careful what you ask for, if giving up a good fellow for some other, you may end up being run down by karma or maybe even some dude’s car, true story. So, choose wisely.
No worries, fellows, I got your broken heart covered too.
Dude, come on. Do not confuse loneliness, horniness, or the feeling of being tossed away or rejected with an unwavering, timeless love lost.
Again, from my own reality, what is there really to miss?
All those times she “don’t feel good” or all the fun things she kept you from doing? Or perhaps it was all the times she gave you a hard time for being on the same planet as other chicks, only to turn around and tell you, “Well, it’s different, he’s just a friend,” eh? Sound familiar? You say he’s just a friend, OH BABY YOU GOT WHAT I NEED… COME ON SING ALONG–
BUT YOU SAY HE’S JUST A FRIEND, YOU SAY HE’S JUST A FRIEND…
The likely truth (again based on my experiences) is that although Ms. Perfect Love was initially a nice, a warm and a charming sex/love/romance/couldn’t keep her hands off ya level-6 goddess, she gradually would morph into a no-fun, crybaby, humbug, cold fish, lamest of the lame kinda dame. The key to the transformation was evident, hidden in your jokes, fella.
For example, when she stops laughing at your jokes, soon after, she will grow unable to string together two interesting sentences in a row– “relationship” = doomed, GAME OVER.
At this point, not only does she no longer “love” you, she probably does not even “like” you. However, sticking around long enough through such an ordeal will lead to the next downward phase. This is when she no long pretends you exist or matter.
For instance, one might produce high-quality writings and other interesting artistic works that she can’t be bothered to look at nor does she care enough to pretend to support either your ego or life goals. BUT…
At the same time, she certainly has no problem “liking” and “loving” some dude’s phone captured imagery of water puddles or some simplistic dumb shit. To solidify her new found appreciation, wait until that dude starts posting his creative words written in crayon or someone else’s oversimplified memes. She loves to go out of her way to support that fellow, but you? Nah, fuck you, buddy.
So, again, what exactly is there to miss?
The truth is the only woman that ever truly loved you was the on-off again lady AKA the crazy lady that ends up run over by a car. How does one know this is the purest and only true love? Because half the time in this type of relationship will be spent living in fear while she breaks your shit, and, ironically enough, comes speeding at you, chasing you down in parking lots, in her vehicle driving, really, really fast. She will also threaten to stab any woman that looks at you or vice versa. Once the relationship appears over, she will even take the time to write letters to your following girlfriend to sabotage said new budding relationship– well before it has a chance to even begin.
The other half of the time, she cannot keep her hands, lips, off of you and showers you with love or showers, as in very nice shower time. WOO WOO!
That my friends, may sound jaded, but that is “love.”
Best case, one either finds themselves entangled with a likely crazy person or an empty-vessel succubus which sucks out the livelihood– until the taste of you grows stale, then, onward to a newly found victim to satisfy the unquenchable palate. So, which will it be?
In closing, recent revelations have taught yours truly, when it comes to being shy about wanting to screw ya, dudes are far more to the point and persistent– even after you tell ’em, “Thank you for the compliment, sir. I appreciate it, we can be friends, certainly, I’m not threatened or anything, but also, I’m not gay.”
Those words do not seem to matter to a high number of horny dudes.
As a result, somewhere, deep within, I feel a need to apologize to womankind on the behalf of most man-dongery. Ladies, I try not to be a pig and do sincerely wish to apologize for all the bad dudes, from the past to the current.
Fellows, please don’t forget– no means no.
It doesn’t mean maybe, or eventually, it means no.
Quick recap, dudes, stop being pigs, no means no. To the ladies, my assurances in it being ok to be a tad more aggressive and please, for the love of deity, stop loving dudes that do not wish to be loved.
Your sometimes Buddy, sometimes “Dickish” DR
This post is dedicated to the following:
my kid on his birthday (even though he doesn’t bother to read this page),
Recently, yours truly posted a question on Quora about poetry, specifically the fear of letting others read your poetry. It is no secret, I have only posted one of my poems, EVER. That was a special occasion, or so I saw it at that time. Turns out the feelings within were not special, they would become the new status quo. For that which may have gone unseen then, most certainly, was not lost on the Quora crowd.
The response to my gut-wrenching poem was quite remarkable. To paraphrase the best of the bunch:
It was too nice, too perfectly aligned with all those lines with the same number of syllables (which was then a source of pride), and the work needed to be sent to the mean streets, beaten in the gutter and bloodied up– for then, and only then, would my poetry show signs of promise.
Thank you, Quora crew for such honest and sound advice.
In full disclosure, the spirit of their message did not offend nor was it lost on me, not in the slightest. With the spirit of bloody, messy, and non-perfect– the following is a few random writings stemming from my internal frustration, it’s not poetry, it may not be technically sound nor even good, but it is honest.
Fuck you said
To oneself repeated, over and again
through the voice of another
Seriously, who cares?
The answer = nobody
Don't confuse reality with desire
Be a coherent imbecile
The monster within
Goes away with Love
or so "they" say
Love is said to take the pain
far far far away
or... so "they" say
Bullshit I said
The pain is everlasting
until you're dead
I can write those words a million times
A million times written to eventually get it "perfect"
As in the poem, lines of prose that flawlessly rhymes
The strife of perfection will assuredly be met
With a dissenting voice-- it's poetry to forget
Time and again
Perfection = fool's errand
The mortals sin
Or so "they" say,
Before, just like you,
They go away
Yet, The MONster never dies
as the beast remains well-fed
by a lifetime of misery and lies
The greatest truth ever said
was never heard because the truth is dead
The lying succubus devours the soul, bit by bit,
until swallowed whole
Then-- I lose; You win.
Of course not, that'd be too easy
and reality must always be a mess
a mess that's far far beyond queasy
Sure, you took all of me
At least the good chunks
but fragments and shards remain
allowing the MONSTer to feed--
on an endless neverending pain.
Thank you for truth told through bullshit and lies;
For as now, you are a reason the MONSTER never dies.
In a math-based world, this concept is correct (nevertheless, for the sake of nerd sanity (self-included), it must be noted ‘nothing’ should technically be zero).
In uncomplicated terms, a probability must be greater than zero, with the sums of every outcome tallying to a perfect 1.0. A fairly easy principle, right?
For example, consider all the possible explanations to the following true story (swear to deity 100% real). Recently, on a sloppy, rainy day, I placed my garbage can by the curb. No surprise, but later, when retrieving my empty refuse bucket– what do my eyes behold? An equally sloppy as the day “rubber.” One that at a quick glance, looked to have been used and somehow this dong cover found a way into my yard. But, it’s not mine… trust me, I would know. So, whose condom, eh? More importantly, why does it look used and why is it on my lawn?
Let’s examine several plausible explanations.
Perhaps, said man-cover fell out from a neighbor’s trash can, then, magically would end blowing, being carried, or flung into my life– seems unlikely, but possible.
Or, maybe it was some dude’s way of asserting his dominance over me after finishing pounding my ex’s snootch to smithereens? Why? Beats me. In full disclosure, any fellow that turned that coldish prude hot deserves applause. Bravo, Mr. Slayer, sir. Carry on, stud. The feasibility of this explanation seems low. Now, that does not mean it did not happen, (who knows?) because people are weird, no?
Conceivably, the case of the rubber may have been a random staging area of a comedically childish prank, ya know… just ’cause.
Another believable hypothesis might center around a wild animal (or even a domesticated critter) stumbling upon the man-dong fun wrapper. Reasonably, the jizz sack ensnared an unidentified creature, tighter than an octopus on a cockle Clinocardium Nuttallii, so, the then-terrified mammal ran faster than Forest Gump to escape and finally shake it off, doing so conveniently, in my yard. Sounds completely believable and highly doable.
***Note to self, keep an eye out for future condom wearing vertebrates.
There are also a billion other reasonable explanations to reveal how the testicle nut seed catcher found a way into my life.
The preceding was just an illustration of how difficult statistical analysis might be, but one that clearly got carried too far (kinda like the rubber on my lawn).
Back to Business
So, let’s narrow the focus to reduce infinite down to just two, a bi-choice, between achieving success versus the agony of defeat via failure. To accomplish this goal, just ask the right question.
To prove questions do matter, please answer the following:
Regardless of one’s deity preference, is there a supreme being, an omnipotent higher power, a god?
Do all humans die?
When you fell from heaven did it hurt?
Does a bear sh*t in the woods?
Who knows for certain, but in the end, the answer is either yes or no.
Human death equals, up to now, yep, 100%.
Yes or no are the only possible options to whether the freefall from paradise hurt. However, let’s not kid ourselves, most of ya(s) were more likely to climb from the pits of hell– obviously, there had to be pain involved– ya filthy demons.
Yes, bears do sh*t in the woods– but they also use Cottonelle toilet paper. According to a number of commercials, bears will use all your toilet paper too– if you don’t keep an eye on the prickly ass-wipes.
All the above yes or no enigmas, no matter how clever or well-thought out the response would end up the same on a data scientists clipboard, either as a superior one or as a mere zero.
In the coldest reality, all of us are reduced down into either a zero or, if fortunate, elevated to a one. In a world full of billions, how special did you any of us truly are?
Go on, mull it over.
Certainly, we’re not all only mathematical calculations… NO, NO, NO.
If that were the case, we’d be lucky. Here’s the deal, the reason mathematics works is that everyone, far and wide, old and new, eventually accept the same exact formulas and agree upon the results, based on then-universal truth.
Thus, in the billions of people on people probabilities constantly calculated around the globe, there are random assignments of 1s and 0s. However, there are no agreed-upon rules nor formulas, and as for universal truth? Haha, with humanity?
That shit ain’t happening.
There’s nothing worse than being a happy 1 with your 1, only to become a zero– to your 1– damn. Few things result in overwhelming pain and anxiety as the questions grow and swirl:
What went wrong? Was it something I said?
Something I did?
Did a new 1, maybe a genuine 1.5, come along?
The sound of a Chirping Cricket
There are some things more detrimental in life than trying to talk to the living, only to receive the same response as if one is trying to communicate with the dead, but the list of superior misery inducement is small.
Who does not know the overwhelming feeling of anxiety? Just my learned view, but the worst distress stems from the power of the unknowing, the uncaring, the realization of a hope lost and lingering puzzles unsolved.
Then again, if those enduring mysteries were explained– would they be clarified with honesty? If yes, would that really be a good thing?
First, a question: Do you know the worst day of your life?
If so, my condolences and sincere empathy.
To those without a definitive answer, good and be thankful. There is nothing, absolutely nothing worse than the worst day of your life. When or if it happens, you will know– it will shatter every fucking illusion one may have ever held– a broken reality of the highest order.
Want to be the King or Queen of Pain?
Well, now you’re a serious competitor to the throne.
The following will be a short, condensed version of my own welcoming to the “Worst Day of My Life” club. Who knows if that is a real thing… but if it’s not, it probably should be.
Fuck, shit, I really, really, really do not want to write this *@#%&$)!!!!!
A DR TIP:
When in doubt, 1, 2, 3, GO…
The day was 27 September 2009, it was early, for my taste anyway.
For the first time in my life, I agreed to do a friend a solid and meet her girlfriend. In other words, it was going to be a foray into the world of “blind” dating. The only reason I agreed was my friend was cool, and the chick-to-meet looked smart and similar enough to S.E. Cupp (or so I thought) that I said, “Why not?”
Me and S.E. (will call her S.E., even though I don’t think she would mind me using her real name) would agree to meet on the 27th, a Sunday, around 1 PM North Cackalacky time. The date would have been on Saturday, but we both had previous engagements.
S.E. would be going to her dad and his boyfriend’s house to celebrate her birthday; I would be heading to a superior pig roast, keg bash at a buddy’s place. In other words, for my plans, 1PM Sunday would be way too early.
Since the location of the pig-kegger was a solid 30-40 minute drive from yours truly’s pimp apartment, my friends, Mike & Debbie, would host me for the night.
“Hell yeah,” I said accepting their invitation.
Soon, we were all riding together to attend one of our most significant gatherings of the fall (at least top 30). It was a great time, featuring me drinking way too many beers, doing keg stands, and almost fighting– not one but two dudes, before ultimately crashing at my friends’ house.
My friend’s son, the coolest dude ever (miss you, Mikey) would offer to let me stay in his room as he was going to stay with another cool peacock.
A funny side story, I would wake up, shit you not, in Mikey’s room wondering, “Who stole all my stuff and replaced it with new stuff?”
That’s right, yours truly, woke up having forgotten I was not at my own place. This would be followed by me walking through the dark house, sometime between five and six AM, unable to locate the bathroom. Like any life champion, I would allow nothing to stand in the way of getting the job done.
Since I could find the front door, I opened, walked out onto the porch and got my half-drunk pee on. The solution was so delightful, I duplicated the practice a second time– an hour later. The follow up was different, there was no joyous relief. It was a sad, self-condemning moment. Therefore, the obvious choice to drive home was made after such a piss poor effort.
***Note: Not only did I pee off my friends’ front porch, twice, but I would also self-report my violations to my friends. Turns out, right before exiting the front door– boom, there was a bathroom, my bad.
After the long, tedious drive to my casa de grande, it was time for a nap. A few hours later, my sleep would turn to awoken anxiousness.
“Ok, you’re going to meet a girl, not a big deal, bro,” looped in my head to calm the nervousness, the anticipation.
Strangely enough, S.E. would be driving in from the same town I had stayed at the night before, but she was coming to the big world, my town, Asheville, NC. Since it was my town, the location of choice would be a convenient but familiar spot. To provide S.E. comfort, our specific meeting spot was chosen– a parking garage adjacent to my work building. I would arrive early to greet my new surprise “whatever mystery awaits” friend.
As I stood comfortably soaking in a beautiful day, I would receive a text me on the old reliable “flip” phone that S.E. was on her way. No worries, I thought. A short forever while later, my phone would ring.
Ok, without bothering to look at the number, I answered the phone believing it was no big deal, “S.E. must have gotten lost or needs help finding the location,” I thought.
Turns out, my assumption was wrong. Horribly wrong.
The five first words, I still remember verbatim, would change my life forever, they were,
“Jay (my primary childhood nickname), your mom shot herself.”
The call and the words came from my aunt, Sherri. The only thing I could ask was if my mom was going to be ok. Sherri did not know the answer but offered her assurance to keep me updated.
A few minutes, at most, which seemed like an eternity slowly crept by as the feelings inside of me were and still remain indescribable before Sherri called and told me the news. My mom was dead.
Even though there may be no way to describe the emotional disaster raging within, I would not wish that feeling on anyone else, ever– not even upon my worst of worst enemies. Suddenly reality intervened, as my name was being called out from afar.
That’s right, shit you not, no sooner than receiving word that my mother was dead, I get to meet a stranger. Welcome to my world, honey. No matter how much the memory of that day sucks, everything is made worse with the knowledge of S.E. having to walk into such a fucked up situation with a stranger. Here we just met, she, I promise– will never forget me for as long as she lives.
To her credit, she graciously offered to postpone our initial date.
I said, “No. Let’s try to do this.”
So, we did. It was a weird experience, but why wouldn’t it be? I thought about my mom, drank some beer, did some walking, and occasionally would erupt in a vicious tear release– rivaling the most torrential rains of a typhoon. Some six or seven hours later, I would walk S.E. to her car and then give her directions for the opposite way she needed to go. My bad. Needless to say, there would not be much of a future romantic relationship between myself and Ms. S.E.
The tale of DR-S.E. is a story within itself, maybe it shall be told another time, another day. However, I will say it was a sincere pleasure to be there when her mom fought and defeated cancer. In fact, things worked out well enough that while I was doing pre-Afghanistan deployment “stuff,” I was even able to bring her a pizza at her mom’s house– all the way in Charleston, South Click. S.E. was there taking care of her mom post-chemo and I was there doing “pre-Afghanistan deployment ‘stuff.'”
During the nine years that have passed, a lot of change has occurred. But I ended up in a same old familiar spot.
First, S.E. would meet her perfect man, they had a kid, last I heard, her world was perfect. Good for you, girl.
As for me, I went through a bunch of ineffective and frankly, bullshit counseling sessions– until finally finding the “right” fit. Well, actually, I found the right fit, but josh you not, one day at the beginning of our last session… my counselor would tell me she was taking another job, “Buh-bye.” Needless to say, the rest of that meeting was her and I discussing our mutual interests, such as the music and speaking work of Henry Rollins and our fondness of Glenn Danzig, again, I shit you not, that happened. Not too long after, we would even run into each other at a Danzig show.
A bunch of other stuff would happen too, to include (in part):
I would spend a few years in Afghanistan.
I would spend a couple years in St. Paul Island, Alaska
Lots of people I know would die from such tragedies as suicide, murder-suicide, drug overdoses, and cancer.
I would end up drinking to excess every day for years. If not for a 6-week stint, from early November through mid-December at beautiful Fort Dix, New Jersey living in a small ass room with 11 other dudes for “deployment” training– I fully believe, yours truly would be dead. Not being allowed to drink, to live, or to do anything other than to train on such things as:
Escaping vehicle roll-overs.
Searching dudes by grabbing their “dice” and not forgetting to “roll” those dice.
Fighting and beating the shit out of a certain– well, everybody (my favorite was a Captain that damn near ripped my arm off with an armbar, only to learn– you grabbed my right arm, bro– I’m left-handed, to which I effectively used to break his hold and whip his ass).
Got to kick some doors open and kick some more ass, FYI, that lady was tough.
Oh, and I got to shoot all kinds of shit, with not one, but 2 guns– responsibly and respectably.
Spent a gazillion hours riding a bus while enjoying the renditions of beautiful songs with my “ECHO” homies. Whether belting out tunes on the bus, at 6AM or 8PM, we always echoed in unison– for we play for keeps, even while singing You’re So Vain and Don’t Stop Believin’.
Yours truly was blushingly humbled by learning from one or two youngsters of being their “old man” crush, haha.
The best part was meeting fantastic people.
One such person was my goofily hilarious, heart-of-gold just a kid bunkmate. This dude was a trip. He would talk in his sleep, often sounding as if he were reading a book aloud. Despite the endless long hours, he would find time to go run around Dix preparing for a marathon or some shit– rain, snow, dark, it did not matter. That fellow’s name is Carey. 17 September would have been his 30th birthday.
Unfortunately, it seems the most delightful people amongst us end up taken away too soon while the shitty types live forever. Carey would bravely face cancer, but it’s been almost two years since he died. Respect and love, my brother.
Somewhere along the way, I would even find the love of my life. Turns out, I was not the love of her life. God, how I loved and adored that woman– my bad.
In the end, the only thing I’ve learned in the past nine years is– LIFE SUCKS. Not all the time, but more times than not the bad outweighs the good. Please, take the time to cherish the good things in life, don’t make things harder than they need to be. Life does not need assistance in throwing bad things your way, so don’t make things worse for yourself. Stop worrying about anything that will not matter five years from now.
As for me, words can’t describe how much I FUCKING hated writing this, it’s a horrible reminder of the worst day of my life. It never fades, never goes away. Most of the people I know or meet– have no idea. It’s not something I feel comfortable discussing or a need to share. Plus, the stigma survivors face is real.
People think I’m a psycho, a lunatic, or a potential murder-suicide waiting to happen. They are wrong. I am just another fucked up, lost soul– a dime a dozen in– this world. Except I do have a gift, I know the pain suicide inflicts upon the lives of the living. As a result, I made a vow years ago to never want anyone to feel or live with such a burden. That’s why I made a pact to live through everything life throws at me, a vow to keep getting back up and trying my best until the bitter end.
I am not one for living with regrets, it’s a futile exercise of self-annihilation. However, not a day goes by that I don’t regret not finding a way from wherever I was in the world to see my mom. I did not see my mom, not once, during the last eight years of her life. She’s been dead for 9-years now.
I’ve spent more years of my life not having seen my mom. Now, 17-years have passed, I am only one year shy of living without my mom longer than I ever lived with her– that sucks.
Thank you, now a word before a dedication:
Please consider “chucking a buck.” Whatever you donate goes to offset the costs of operating TheDR.World. Currently, there are no profits, the page is running at a loss. Often, the first step is the hardest, we’ll get there– eventually.
This writing is dedicated to all the decent folks lost during the past nine years to include my beautiful friend, Debbie, and her son, the greatest kid ever, Mikey, my homies since childhood– Big E., Chad, the previously mentioned and always a hoot, Carey, Christi with an “I”, and my little sister, Lisa.
A special thank you to Mr. Bryan Behar and his words of encouragement. Having shared his own story, Bryan assured me, with time, I too would share mine. Thank you, Bryan.
Certainly, the creative inventor can feel the spark of pain’s underlying muse. Just as long as the cut is quick, but also deep enough to allow a nice gob of blood to drip down upon the page. Timing is everything, it’s crucial to turn the internal torture into a splendid gift, a gift of suffering.
Maybe, in time such anguish will lead to gratitude. If the scar bearer can conquer and capitalize upon a life of wretchedness, they might possibly yield enough fame and fortune to make the beautiful disaster worth it– as it makes, dollars and cents (or sense), right?
Then again, such “success” could serve as a catalyst to re-open wounds, never allowing for complete healing. The surrounding universe that loves to gawk at grand tragedy, may penetrate the old cut, seeping into the bloodline. Left untreated, the synergetic combination of the world and wound slowly gnaw away the insides. Eventually, all that is left is a shell, hollow within. How sad is an emotionally empty elite suffer genius?
In the cruelest of ironies, the most formative years present the greatest opportunity to produce wonderous misery perfectly matched with passion, hormones, emotions, and enthusiasm only found during the youthful bloom. To add to the spectacular potential, in the young, the previously undiscovered misery and despair is mint, fresh, a virginal first, the purest of maidens.
If only a child or adolescent possesses the ability to verbalize, lyricize, or visualize these internal earthquakes– they could then capture and etch a disturbingly wonderful moment that endures for eternities to come.
Assuredly, all people experience, at some point or another (and again), an encounter with various life discomforts. Like beauty, trauma, also, is in the eye of the beholder.
Under ideal circumstances, almost anything could damage the psyche.
Conceivably, when a first-grade child enrolled in a new school, a number of the little girls might think the new kid is “so cute.” So, the little vixens-to-be grab the boy, hold him down, put their lipstick on, and smatter him with their glorious ruby red kisses. Now, this is certainly a welcome experience to this particular lad, one which he will likely never forget. He has arrived. Then again, often the best dose of reality seems to randomly reveal itself via the hand of surprise physical harm.
In the case of the Rosie-spotted boy, it turns out, an onlooking gang of lads also had a grand welcome in mind. Not to be outdone by the girls, the crew decided to hand-deliver their hospitality too. Yet, instead of bestowing sweet lips of innocence, the little troupe went with a disjointed effort to display their young fu, which consisted of punches in bunches, a little bit of spitting, gouging, twisting, and mocking. Oh, the innocent taunts of the young, learning how to hate, how to hurt, and how to ridicule others with phrases they have heard but likely have not yet discovered the meaning.
“How ya like that faggot?” Whack, boom, pow, bang. “How you like when I beat it out the frame with my cockmaster, you little shit?” Bang, pow, boom, whack.
Obviously, not all experiences are the same.
Possibly, in the grand scheme of life, the adult version of the loved victim reflects upon such a wondrous tale with a reminiscence of glee– as those may have been, by comparison, “the good old days.”
Conceivably, life doles out a long list of character building opportunities such as all those times daddy had to let his fist provide parental guidance to his personal punching bag, his pride and joy? Unmistakably, each and every time one gave daddy no choice but to administer closed hands to the head is memorable, but the surprise of the first time makes it… the tops.
Maybe, the kid’s mommy was also fond of doling beatings which featured fewer fisticuffs and more foreign objects? Silly mommy, over the years, a boy grows too big, acquainted, and the luster of drubbings from a smaller foil lose credible impact. Silly mommy. Nonetheless, Mommy is no dummy, she may recognize evolution’s reality– turning from the cracking to verbal shattering.
Who could ever forget sweet mommy affirming, “I regret the day you were born, you son of a bitch,” right? Such an exceptional long-lasting sting, for a momma’s boy, this could be a pivotal transition to a carefree and soulless life. Of course, momma might have recognized the damage of her words and would always apologize– but to no avail.
If you love a soul, set it free, but don’t expect it to return.
Unfortunately, most youths are ill-prepared to cope with their new lifelong buddy, known as Mr. Misery, the tricky beast that yields emotional anxiety as if it was a strategic saber. Misery does his business, to give a little poke here, a slight jab there, as he blandly whispers, “Oh, you’ll live, but this sh*t is about to get and stay interesting, my friend.”
Such a struggle is already a problematic affliction, therefore, for most adolescents, trying to express an overwhelming generosity of rack’s substantial charity remains a tad bit out of their reach. Such a mysteriously bittersweet tragedy.
Yet, by the time one reaches adulthood, the pains of yesteryear have come to define who ya are. “Look, it’s just another weathered, beaten down, excuse making, wannabe king of pain. Well, get in line, pal– behind all the other once celebrated f*ck trophies turned broken beings with their long list of grievances, hardships, and excuses. Sure, you’re unique, just not all that special. It’s too bad you didn’t bother writing down that really sadly cool story, back when you had the chance. Oh, well, that’s how life goes, right? Perpetually going against you, against me, we’re doomed, we’re damned, but weren’t we always?”
Until the day of one’s death, it is never too late. It can all be turned around, rediscovered, the pain let go– release, release it all. Be shiny, be new. Instead of being what “they” demand, what “they” tried to create– how about… you do you?
***The following was originally published on 08 April 2018. On 05 July 2018, Google notified yours truly that this writing was, as they put it:
Ironically, it is my belief that Google proved the work’s hypothesis. Thank you, Google.
The pressure continued rolling in from Google. For an overwhelming majority of web pages, there is little to no money to be made. Yet, for most, the little bit of chump change that can help offset operational expenses, Google is a crucial partner– which is what many might lead to what is commonly referred to as “click bait” sites.
So, after repeated warnings, mixed with zero reads, I pulled the article because there was no benefit from pissing off the hand that sometimes makes it rain nickel down upon thee. Unfortunately fortunate, my conscience refuses to believe there to be anything wrong with the article. If anything, the ideas are legitimate and the heart behind it all is in the right place.
Therefore, a first amendment decision was made, but no point to make such a statement by falling directly on one’s sword. In other words, no point in being a nothing martyr. Standing up to “the man” should rely upon having some sort of necessary greater good. In this case, there is none– as nobody really cares, except yours truly.
In a hastily thought out moment of nihilistic clarity, I wondered, “What happens if I take out or change– just one word?” Would that be enough to have the unread reading viewed? That’s the whole goal. Writers do not write for web pages like TheDR.World for money– because there is none. The whole goal is to express one’s self in the hope that others read said expressions. If they like it– cool, if they don’t– also cool.
Enjoy the “new and improved” previously banned article (changes from original will be boldly noted as deleted):
After all, the Second Amendment folks are a vocal crowd, but who stands up publicly to declare, “I support the right to bear and possess deleted?” Nobody, right?
In the year 2018– America remains in denial and liberally continues to repress sexuality.
You know, one must avoid morally bankrupt practices such as premarital sex and the impulsive desire, this decadence is obviously– not “natural.” Every time YOU!!! masturbate– Jesus weeps. Telling everyone how wrong they are for being human is a comfortable, uncomplicated narrated. Especially when contrasted with striving to develop an honest, fair, and ethical strategy to combat gun violence– that sh*t sounds arduous, too complicated, just really, really hard. Instead, let the focus continue to remain as is.
Let the American society happily continue to track down, arrest potheads and pretend to crack down on “deleted but rhymes with corn dog.”
**NOTE: One holding a fancy piece that with an ever so slight, but proper squeeze will unleash a rapid ejaculation, round after round, of invigorating, molten-hot lead equals natural, loving, God’s will. However, the possession of a plant and masturbation are not only WRONG, but it is also dangerous, and frankly– that sh*t is faithless, unnatural.
America remains such a weird country.
A nation that commonly supports the notion, an idea, that somehow violence is more acceptable, far less grotesque than anatomy and inherent human behavior.
Consider how commonplace it is to teach our youth– a simple and straightforward narrative that they will burn in hell or that guns are beautiful. The children are taught to responsibly to enjoy but respect their potentially lethal thundersticks– all standard Americana, right?
However, if a school or parent wishes to explain to these children the proper science teach them about their own body– well, that’s too much, too soon. Just… HELL NO! Instead, let us continue to focus on teaching our adolescence to:
Love thy gun. Shoot the neighbor thattrespasses as they would exterminate thee
To set the record straight, this column is not meant as a fix-all of complex ailments of modern society because such issues are complicated.
However, it would be delightful to see a legislative *deleted* debate focus on the physical safety and emotional well-being of the men and women that work within the adult industry. Aren’t they people too?
But the welfare of *deleted* stars is not popular, and it is much easier for the publicly uptight to rage their familiar anti-*deleted* legislative stunts that mainly achieve nothing. For the politicians, the topic is a safe no-lose opportunity to gain positive publicity. Then, later they can secretly use their gained trust, their authoritative mandate to embed covert benefits deeply within proposed laws– all to satisfy their campaign donors and PACs. One man’s *deleted* is another man’s tax break.
Why are the uptight people the righteous ones?
How is it that those that gladly go against human reality, science, and animal nature are the ones that get their way? Is it because ignorance is comfortable? Is it due to inherited views that remain dominant and endlessly refuse to acknowledge the truth of a changing world, a changing reality?
Furthermore, denying the “facts of life” while repressing the youth tends to support ignorance that promotes risky behavior and real consequences. As an example, the following two Center for Disease Control database outputs displays a regional analysis of America’s STD rates.
The first chart shows the regional analysis of America’s number one STD–
The second chart shows the STD cases, population, and rates per 100,000 people:
(Note: the above link will require the generation of one’s own charted data. However, the information is available and user-friendly.)
Now, compare the STD rates to Overall Best States Rankings in crucial areas such as Education and Health Care. Does there not seem to be a noticeable correlation between proper education and healthcare versus STD rates? So, again, why does modern America commonly accept hurting the youth just through a lack of openness, truth, and honesty?
Makes no sense, does it?
Here is a credible truth of America’s sexuality– our problems seem to stem from a non-acceptance of reality along with a lack of proper education (to include health and sexual education).
It would seem, as a male-dominant society– when it pertains to sex-related matters everything seems to boil down to “the man’s” inability to cope with a grim possibility– an imaginable terror– that women might see, experience, and gasp– enjoy a penis that might be a tad more magnanimous than the one they possess.
No matter what you are rocking (or lacking)– odds are, someone else has you beat (either way on the scale, higher or lower)– this fact and it is ok. This hypothesis could help explain why our culture slut shames, fails to adequately promote and support women’s preventive health/birth control, etc. While at the same time, many a gentlefolk collectively attempts to humiliate our women by assuring them how much of a shameless whore they might be– for the crime of… being human.
Yours truly does not buy any of that sh*t; there is nothing to gain living just to condemn others. As for the man-dick, well being compared to others– for better, worse, longer, shorter– it is only a part of the person, it should not solely define anyone positively or negatively. Not that hard (pun intended), in fact, it’s a genuinely unchaste concept.
Back to the children.
On a final note, in an ever-changing world, adaptation is a necessity. Back in the day, there was no internet, no “googling that sh*t.” In a world before cell phones, *deleted* was hard to come by, an extreme delicacy. Thus, it goes without saying that today’s parents have to determine how to operate a new-age without a manual. Let’s face it– nobody is sure of the lasting consequences of modern-day technology.
First, parents must decide when to allow their children to have access to phones, computers, etc. Followed by establishing how much exposure to concede?
Is it responsible to provide children access to products likely accountable for zombifying a whole generation? Perhaps, technology will lead this crop of youth to follow a preceding period movement (but substantially modified) to: “turn on, tune in, drop out.”
As for *deleted*?
Here is a pure revelation. Even if a parent decides not to allow their children to possess cell phones and monitors their home usage– so what? No matter how much supervision or strictness a parent places upon their offspring– the rest of world does not care. Sure, the homeschooled kid might survive such encounters, but that’s a small fraction of today’s youth.
The rest will be exposed to a variety of outside influences, to include both positive peers and, let’s face it, “that” kid. The one that knows far too much, far too early, but is an imperfect-pseudo expert. Thus, if parents are not willing to have an accurate, open dialogue with their children about the reality, potential dangers, and pitfalls of *deleted*— someone else will.
The choice is based on who do trust more– yourself or “that” kid?
As for the legislators, IF they believe regulating guns out of the hands of dangerous people… then, how do they… how can they… honestly ever expect to control and limit the widespread availability of *deleted* adequately?
The information world of today is overloaded with unlimited choices; this certainly applies to the availability of *deleted*. Yours truly will admit to not understanding nor appreciating much of the new-age *deleted*. “Back in my day” we had to walk uphill to school, in the snow, both ways– and hope to find a half-torn, worn down *deleted* magazine outside an abandoned building commonly frequented by the whinoes. True story.
PS, since this work is a nostalgic reminder of youthful moments of limited-discoveries of wonderfully confusing smut, perhaps shall be the subject of future reflections.
*** On a final note, yours truly is not asking anyone to agree with the views within this writing– but please remember the First Amendment, yo’. It’s just as important for me, or you, or anyone else– even those that horrible things to say– still all have the right to say it. Nobody should be as 2 Live Crew was back in the day & that is “Banned in the U.S.A.“