Keith Blenman's Blog: This Worthless Life, page 4

Inner monologue, day 12,533/?

For what it's worth (and we both know it's never been noteworthy), you are the smallest, least significant person on the face of the Earth. But do you even care any more?

Every time you cross paths with someone else, you're always the one to step out of the way. Always. You don't say hello because you're not someone worth saying hello to.

Your life is going nowhere.

Let me say that again. Your life is going nowhere.

The two most governing forces of your identity are fear and weakness. Every word spoken, every joke cracked, every conversation attempted is suffocated by self depreciating anxiety before you can even open your mouth.

You can't even hold a conversation any more, you're so wrapped up in being worried about what to say. You don't have a mind to speak of because the only thought left is that if you die in your sleep tonight it won't make a single difference for anybody.

The world will keep moving. Your greatest achievements will remain invisible to the rest of the world. You don't matter. Nothing matters. Even if you had something to say, how dare you have the audacity to pretend any of it was worth being listened to.

You are nothing.

You are nothing.

You are nothing.

Just another unloved, empty husk fearing death as if it's going to be anything other than a ceasing of that fear. The only thing less noteworthy in this world than your life is going to be your death.

I give it six years from that day before you're forgotten by everything. Only because I'm being generous.

Another day of being sick. Another day of being afraid. You've given up on yourself and everybody knows it. You can tell because nobody's reaching. Nobody's trying to lift you up. They're all just watching you slowly suffocate yourself in these dismal, lonely thoughts. Why save the drowned rat?

The whole world is moving on and there's no place for you. There never was. You're the man who gets out of the way.

You'd be pitiful if you were worth a lingering thought.

Small, sad, nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Just a husk going through the motions of being a man. But not much of one. Something insignificant going through the motions of pretending to find meaning.

There's no point in screaming from the rooftops when people have better things to worry about than your sorry voice.

Small, sad, pathetic. Doesn't even know how to speak anymore. The forgettable little nobody, only seen in the moments when he trips over his own foot. A stupid, little husk.

After thirty four years, you'd think whatever chemical imbalance in my brain would find something else to think about. Why not movies? I like movies. Why can't it just think about them?

Pondering during a c diff infection

To shit or not to shit. That is the question. Whether 'tis nobler behind my sack to suffer the farts and brewing of inglorious indigestion or take arms against the sea of troubles and by holding it end them. To shit, to fart no more- and by fart to say we end the ass ache, and a thousand ripple shocks that air moves flesh to. Tis an evacuation devoutly to be wished. To fart, to shit- to shit, perhaps to wipe. Aye, there's the rub. For in that shit of death what stinks might come when we have blasted out some brown coil, and gives us pause. There's a respect to the anus that make so long of turd.

Excerpt from my bucket list

Bucket List is a phrase I've been hearing more and more lately. To the point that I thought I should start my own. The thing of it is, I can only come up with so much at a time. And while I could post the entire thing as one long blog I thought it might be more fun to present small portions of it every now and again. So as part of an ongoing series, here are two items I'd like to experience before I die:

#13 - Eat an entire box of thin mint Girl Scout cookies without any feelings of regret afterward. Particularly the regret of knowing that I now possess one less box of Girl Scout cookies.
#29 - Hold something of either extreme importance or value for a long, lingering moment and then casually toss it into a large, metal drum. Followed by a Molotov cocktail.

Sleep well, Franny

This is my very first photograph of Francesca Marie (Frances, for short) , not long after I unknowingly adopted her in 2002. I was a student at Western Michigan University. She was three years old and just about the heftiest I'd ever seen. I hadn't wanted a cat. My previous experience with two cats in another apartment hadn't gone so well and at the time I was highly conscious of my security deposit. My girlfriend at the time had talked me into it, saying that I was just babysitting her for a few months while Frances's mother moved to New Orleans for Law School. Eventually she'd return for her. But in the meantime, France's experiences with previous owners were short lived. A highlight being a former drug dealer who used to lock her in a Tupperware tote and blow weed smoke at her face through a hose. Not wanting the poor, defenseless cat to end up in a similar situation I agreed to keeping her for a few months.      Truth be told, I almost didn't keep her. The first two nights I had her she spent the entire time meowing and pawing at doors, trying to find a way out. I got a collective three hours of sleep over several days and left several message with my girlfriend to please help me find another temporary home for this cat.      Thankfully she didn't call me back.

It took a bit of time, but Franny eventually settled in with my roommate, Nate, and I. 

A fascinating thing about her was that she always had to have her paws hanging over edges. I never understood why. Whether she was lying on the couch, a bed, or even one of my college textbooks, one paw was always hanging down.
It didn't take long for her to start getting a bevy of nicknames. Fran, Franny, Franny Fatty Fat Fat, and Triple Chunk were favorites. Sweet Pea developed somewhere in there.
Somewhere in 2002 I got my first digital camera. The first two pictures taken with it were of her. The first one, Frances walking away from the food dish made me think the camera was broken. Or she was possessed by a demon. I really didn't know enough about cats and digital cameras at the time to draw a conclusion with any degree of certainty.
She was always a wonderful cat. Lazy, aloof, quirky, and beautiful.
The few months I was meant to keep Fran slipped into a few months more. And then a year or so. By the time we concluded nobody was ever coming back for her, I'd have killed them if they tried.  

Between Nate and I, Nate was more of the alpha in the apartment and she took to him a little quicker than me...

...Which made me incredibly jealous. Thankfully I discovered that her nuzzling into people's heads was entirely a hair fetish. Franny loved to use heads as pillows and I never understood why.
It was the hair. She loved nuzzling into people's hair. At least I still tell myself this.
Along came Fe. One summer Nate was away for a month and a coworker, Malissa, talked me into adopting a kitten from her litter. Avid fans of Cowboy Bebop, I named her Fe and gave her to Nate as a gift.

Franny was less than thrilled with a kitten in the apartment and took to hiding in places where she couldn't be reached. 

It didn't help that Fe brought with her an eye infection that led Franny to several visits with the local vet. Along with fleas.

Fe also started eating from Franny's food dish, which was met with disagreeable glares.



 Eventually they became buds.











Franny never did warm up to the helicopter. To be fair, they only knew each other for an afternoon before it crashed into a wall. If she could've, I'm sure she'd have taken credit for its death. While it lied their, propeller twitching, she slowly crept up and bat at it.




Franny's one and only trick, I was told when I adopted her, was "cat yoga." I by no means ever made enough videos of her stretching like this. For years she'd flop in front of me, roll over and put her paws out, waiting for me to help give her a stretch.
Here's a fun tip for cats in summer. I learned this from a local blogger, Kendra, who swapped cat stories with me. Keep a wash cloth or hand towel in your freezer. On a hot day, if your cat is trying to cool off, drape it over your cat. (Or your own shaved head, although this doesn't aid the cat).    A freezer blanket creates instant purring. Especially in Franny.

Seriously. She always had to have a paw hanging down.
In 2008, I decided I wasn't getting anywhere trying to make a living in Kalamazoo. Forever broke and  after bombing about a million attempts at finding better work, I decided to return to school and explore other fields. It was hard to separate Franny and Fe, and Nate and Franny, but she was coming with me at costs. So I moved back into my mom's house in Grosse Pointe, where three other cats and a dog were living. I was nervious Franny wouldn't get along with the other pets, but was greatly mistaken.
Beagle had a habit of randomly attacking everyone and everything. Surprisingly he and Franny took to each other pretty fast. Probably because they were both enormous and their eyes glow in pictures.
The first time Franny saw Clohe (the typo is intentional. That's how they misspelled her name on her dog tag at the pet store), she discovered two things. One, there are dogs in the world. Two, attempting to run away on wooden floors doesn't always work out for cats. She ran in place for several seconds before colliding into a kitchn cupboard. Thankfully it didn't take her long to adjust. These piles of Franny, Harper, and Clohe, along with other pets, weren't unusual. 
But she still had to get away from everyone sometimes.







This isn't a hot day, but Franny requesting cat yoga. 
When I published Siren Night in 2010, I really had no idea how to sell books on the Kindle. Many people would probably point out that I still don't. If there was ever a pair of eyes that could help though...

If you scroll back up to my college WMU pictures, you can see this same crappy shelf in my old apartment. One of Franny's favorite spots was the bottom shelf. No matter where I moved, she was always home when she could sleep there.
Actually Franny was at home pretty much anywhere she found herself.
And she grew incredibly used to Clohe.
And me. I assume. I hope. I'd had her for a decade at this point.
Franny and Beagle took to filling up my bed, pretty much all day. They'd lie together like this constantly.
But whenever I got in bed she'd still curl up near me. Over the years it was always by my feet. She actually always had a habit of lying just out of reach, where nobody could pet her. One night I started picking her up and placing her by my head. It took a couple of months, but eventually she figured out that I could give her yoga if she slept near my face. 


 This was incredibly cute, and I wrote about it in a previous blog. But this also gave me pink eye. If I teach all of you one thing in this world, let it be that cats shouldn't stick their paws on your eyeballs.

My love, my muse, Crissy, kept telling me how amazing Sobakawa pillows were. And they are. They're like beanbags for your face. I bought one mostly just to impress Crissy, but Franny took to it almost immediately. The sobakawa became her bed.
Although she still hung out with the other cats at the foot of the bed. She was no snob.






In the summer of 2014 I noticed that Franny had been throwing up pretty often. This wasn't actually too new of an issue. For as long as I've had her, she'd always been a pukey cat. She'd eat too fast. She'd fling her food out of her bowl and eat it off the floor (Scroll back up to the picture of Fe eating out of Franny's food dish. Notice the mess). Throwing up was pretty much a hobby of hers.
But for the most part, she was herself. So initially I didn't worry too much about it. She was lying on all the furniture and purring constantly. And I supposed she was a little older than usual, so puking a bit more might be natural for her. 
Finally I took her to the vet for a check up. They didn't notice anything initially wrong. She was at a healthy weight. They told me I was probably right and she was probably just a little older and needed to slow down when she ate. They gave her a shot for her nausea to see if it would help.
It didn't and we were back at the vet a week later. They took x-rays and discovered two things. One, her intestines were inflamed. And two, she had an enormous tumor in her chest. Three different vets told me the tumor was in an unusual location (most tumors grow on the left lung. Hers was on the right). Also, it was surprisingly large for a tumor in a cat. All three of them said that at her age, or even if she was a kitten, trying to remove the tumor would destroy her quality of life and the chances of her making a full recovery were pretty much none. Also her tumor was probably secondary to lymphoma, so even if we removed it she'd still have the disease. There was nothing to be done but keep her as happy and comfortable as I could for as long as possible.
My mom blamed her previous caretaker, the guy who blew weed smoke through a hose at her while she was locked in a tote. I blamed myself for not catching it sooner. And for being a smoker for the first few years I had her. I'd quit smoking years before, but was it my fault? Did I do this to her? The vet told me she was a senior citizen and cats her age get tumors. I was reassured by a couple of my brothers, but a lung tumor kept the thought in my head.
For the most part she still seemed happy. I promised to keep her that way for as long as I could.
Vet visits were frequent enough that she felt comfortable sleeping in her carrier all day.
But she was still very much herself, hanging out with the other cats. She wouldn't play as much as she used to. And when she did she'd start having coughing fits.  
She'd started coughing after I gave her yoga too. That never stopped her from requesting it though.




Franny had curled up in bed with me every night for years. She was always at my side, purring away.






I panicked whenever she'd stop eating or start puking again. The vet gave her steroid injections every few weeks and they did the trick to keep her going. The first time she ate after getting one, I'd always break down and cry a little. I got my Franny for a little bit longer. I was going to the grocery store multiple times a week to buy cans of food. She'd only ever eat part of them, but I'd give her a fresh can every time. It was all I could do. Keep her eating and keep her going.
Every night when I'd get home from school or one of my jobs, she'd be waiting at the top of the stairs. I fed her in the bathroom right behind her. If I started walking up and she darted for the bathroom, I knew she'd be okay a little longer. If she didn't, I knew we'd be taking another trip to the vet.



I spoiled her at Christmas. All the cats really, but I wanted to make sure she had plenty of new toys. She didn't play with them much but would lie by them and purr. It was enough to be near them.


I don't know what compelled me. Pictures of my girlfriend's ferrets all snuggled up in their extra soft blankets, I suppose. Shortly after the holidays I went out and bought a micro fiber blanket to make sure Franny had that extra bit of comfort.
Crissy took an old picture of Franny and had this beautiful and hilarious painting made of her. I currently don't know the artist, but when I find out I'll post his name. I love how he captured her fur and fat rolls from when she was a little bigger.


She stayed close to me every day. Whenever I wasn't home, I'd start to panic and worry that she wasn't all right. 


This is the last picture I ever took of Franny. I was sending Crissy pictures of the painting, trying to decide on which wall I should hang it on. I made some lame comment about how the painting dwarfed her when she used to be such an enormous cat.


One night a few weeks ago, I was at my brother's apartment, meeting some cats he recently adopted. My mom called, saying that Franny couldn't walk and I had to get home as quickly as possible. I heard Franny meowing and screaming in the background. I panicked. I was nearly an hour away and Mike had to drive me home. I knew it was time. I knew immediately that I wouldn't be given another night with her purring at my side while I was drifting off to sleep.        When we got home, Mom was trying to calm Franny but she didn't really settle until I picked her up. She couldn't walk and was furious for it. She kept attempting and flopping over, frustrated. As I held her, she nuzzled her face into the pit of my elbow. She quieted down and let me pet her. At least for the most part.

A few times she tried to get up and panicked. She bit my hand a few times before I got her to settle down again.
I wrapped her up in a towel and Mom drove us to the vet. They gave her an examination and clipped one of her claws on her hind leg. No blood came out of the vein there. They took her temperature and she was ten degrees cooler than she should've been. I pet Franny and rubbed her ears, and then we said our good-byes. She passed away resting her head in my hand her little paw wrapped over my wrist. We watched each other as the doctor gave her an injection. She passed quietly and peacefully, and I kissed her on the forehead one last time before they took her away. Beagle spent several days curled up by her Sobakawa pillow. He got up to eat a few times, but wouldn't purr when I pet him. The other two cats, Polaris and Harper, paced around the house, howling. Our dog, Shadow, hopped up in bed with me; something he'd never do on account of all the cats on my bed.
On my pinky, I have a scar from my childhood cat, Mack. I thought it fitting that Franny had punctured that same hand when she bit me, but I doubted any of her bites were deep enough to scar. So while driving around, and stopping twice to let myself fall apart, I had three of her bite marks tattooed. Three little freckles for my Triple Chunk. Two are different shades of gray for her stripes. The third is green for her eyes.
I received her ashes and have them over my desk. Right behind that plastic effigy Crissy made (which like the painting was  overwhelmingly moving). Near enough that she still feels close. When I get in bed at night I'm still fluffing the sobakawa pillow for her. And when I wake up it takes me a minute to adjust to her not being on it. I know this will get easier with time, and I was hoping that writing this out and chronicling her life would help. I'm kind of a train wreck without that furry little presence at my side. I gave her the best life I could, and all these years later still regret making that phone call after my first day with her. The truth is that every day I had Franny was a gift. She was a wonderful cat, truly one of a kind. I love her and although I certainly don't understand enough about life to speak about this world or the next, if we ever do get to meet again, the chance to rub her ear, give her yoga, and listen to her purr... That would mean the world.
Until we meet again, Franny.
Thank you.
Sleep well, kitty.
Good night.

Sickly student sickens

Oh my god I feel like crap.

It started about a week ago. Slowly, mildly. I had a slightly sore throat and took some Airborne, not really thinking much of it.

Over the weekend at work one of the managers lost her voice, as well as one of the cashiers. The cashier actually started refusing to speak and instead wrote out flashcards to present to all of her customers. Little flashcards saying things like:

Hello!
Did you find everything okay today?
Your total is on the screen.
Would you like to purchase a protection plan on the item you are purchasing today?
The benefits of the protection plan can be found in this flyer, in the area I am highlighting right now.
Are you certain you don't want to purchase a protection plan?
But are you really sure?
Positive?
But-
Maybe next time.
Debit or credit?
Thank you for shopping with us.
It was... unique. To say the least. Anyway, every time I walked by and saw that happening I had to laugh. I caught my illness early. I packed on the vitamin C and nothing was going to stop-COUGH! ...Nothing was going to stop- COUGH! COUGH! ...No really, nothing was going to- COUGH! GOLLUM! GOLLUM!
SIGH!
Well shit.
So I currently sound like a frog asphyxiating itself. Which is perfect because this is the first week back to school, both for the class I'm teaching and the one I'm enrolled in. Say what you will about being enrolled in a class, the fact that I had to stand up and lecture with my head exploding and my throat feeling somebody is dragging steel wool up and down it is probably one of the worst things I can do. Thankfully the university had a typo in my student's online schedules, showing the class starts an hour later than it actually it does. So although I got the word out to most of my students, not everybody knew. The problem is solved now, but I just gave the lecture twice.
And that was how steel wool was replaced with a belt sander.
I couldn't talk when I woke up this morning. And I'm feeling pretty horrific. Not, "Must... go to... doctor..." horrific, but definitely "absolutely must stay in bed. Maybe watch The Price is Right" terrible. And I slept right through The Price Is Right.

But again, I had class today. My first class of the semester, and my first actual creative writing class for my Masters. At least I thought it was creative writing. The class was listed as "Topics: Creative Writing." And as a creative writing major, this seemed like the thing to take. After previous literature and linguistics classes, I was looking forward to finally, finally, finally getting into a workshop and studying fiction again with my peers. I haven't gotten to do that since my undergrad classes, over a decade ago.
Should I have gone to class? No. Should I have driven myself to school? Definitely not. But did I anyway?
It turns out the class has a more specific title than "Topics: Creative Writing." It's called, "Performance Art & Poetry for Everybody." And the first thing our professor told us was that we'll be performing at a jazz bar in April. Also that poetry is just in the title but a performance art can be just about anything.
...Sick, tired, maybe a little confused from the DayQuil, I'm having a really difficult time understanding how a creative writing so quickly turned into this:


One day, as a creative writing major, I WILL be in a creative writing class. It's going to happen.

Anyway, I seriously need to get back in bed, but first let me bring this full circle. Our professor was explaining that performance art can include any number of infinite things we may not have even thought of yet. And we have the tools and technology today for limitless possibilities in our performances. And at one point he said, "I bet one of you is an accomplished film maker using only your phone."

And sickly me said, wheezing, "Say... I've made some pretty cool movies with my phone."

"Really? Are they on YouTube? Can we see them."

"...Well, I think I have something old up there but ummm... no. No." What I wasn't saying is that my last attempt at a film had been made entirely for my girlfriend. And was definitely only for that audience of one.

Use your imagination. Add a soundtrack, establishing shot, fading out, and themes of creative expression, but... seriously, use your imagination.

"I think you're holding back," our professor said.

"Yes. I am definitely holding back."

"Well there's got to be something you've made."

...Fuck me. Okay.

So I tried to send my girlfriend a video earlier in the day illustrating just how incredibly shitty I'm feeling today, drinking green tea from a Dick Butt mug she'd sent me for Christmas (blog upcoming on our history of perverted gifts). The message kept failing and I gave up. But in the end, this was the most acceptable thing I had to show people. I called it, "The flu."


...I don't think I'll be making any new friends this semester.

Oh Christ.

I was on my lunch break at work today, enjoying some Panera because I forgot to make my lunch this morning. Well, no. I didn't so much forget as much as I instead played with a cat.


And who can blame me?
Anyway, I didn't pack a lunch, so I went out to Panera for a chicken pesto sandwich and some mac & cheese. I found a quiet table, as far from everybody else as I could possibly get, and was enjoying my food when this guy -middle aged, balding, wearing a red scarf and denim jacket- walks up and stands at my table, staring at me.

Mind you, it takes me a minute to realize he's watching me eat. Somewhere in the back of my mind I was recalling the last time I'd been to a Panera, during which a cute girl told me to check out her Final Fantasy belt buckle, and then chuckled as she said, "I just made you stare at my crotch!"

One can only imagine my facial expression in that moment. Well, both moments. One, when she said that. And two, my face while this random guy was watching me eat. But after a moment of wistful daydreaming I finally looked up at the man who I'd just deemed an intruder.

"Excuse me," he said. "Excuse me, I have to tell you something."

I may have blinked. Immediately my mind started listing off all the possible things this guy was about to say.

A list of things I thought this guy was about to say:"You are fat and ugly and that bread is making you fatter. Thankfully you're already at the maximum level of ugly so that's not really going to change.""You may not have noticed me outside a few minutes ago, but I was gunning for that parking space and you took it. And now I'm going to take your scalp.""I sometimes like the blood of strangers on my mac & cheese.""I need scissors! 61!""I'm gonna make you stare at my crotch. And by stare at I mean... Well. You'll know when it happens.""I have to draw you.""I am from the planet Klepfrep. As representative of my entire species I've come to learn of your strange human planet. Also to taste your belly button.""My hand can be filled by either the gun in my pocket or your wallet. Which do you prefer?""I'm the guy who leaves drool on your pillow at night.""A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y and Z! NOW I KNOW MY ABC'S! NEXT TIME WON'T YOU SING THEM WITH ME?""I have your poet friend. Take this briefcase to the fifth floor of the Hyatt Hotel on fifteen mile road if you ever want to see him again.""You sir have a face for radio.""I've read all your books. And now I've come to hobble you."So clearly I wasn't getting a lot of positive vibes from this guy. I was already creeped out and kicking myself for not being one of those idiots who always takes a gun into fast food restaurants with them. And while I'm sitting there processing this total stranger invading my lunch and contemplating whether or not he's going to skin me, he's just standing there. Just staring at me. Not smiling. Not trying to sit down. Not making any sort of gesture. Not even blinking. He's just watching me. And in retrospect he was probably just waiting for me to say something, but my natural response in awkward situations is silence. So I was sitting there waiting for him to kill me. And he was standing there waiting for me to be accepting of his presence. But I wasn't. At all. And this silence lasted long enough that I actually started to feel annoyed that he wasn't killing me yet.
"What? Do you need a fucking invitation to randomly murder me? You sure as shit didn't need one to interrupt the one moment of quiet I get in my day! Quit relishing the moment and get to work!"
But he didn't kill me. Like, at all. Instead he let the moment hang for far too long and then he said, in the most sincere tone possible, "Jesus Christ loves you and he's coming for you."
There's no way I didn't scowl. Honestly, I have no idea what expression I made, but from his expression I'm sure it wasn't comfortable. I may have had an eye twitch. Say what you will about faith, religion, or the divine. I really don't feel like delving into my own lingering threads of spiritual beliefs at the moment, but suffice to say, I don't share his faith. I was raised with a similar faith and very earnestly want nothing to do with it ever again. And I don't know if this makes me more broken than him, but I was offended at his arrogance for assuming I needed to hear that. 
A list of things going through my mind in that momentPossible response: "Oh, uh. No thank you. I prefer to do my own coming. Good day."Do I look shitty and miserable right now? Do I look so terrible minding my own business that complete strangers feel compelled to save me? I know I'm in my work clothes, but damn.Do I ask him why he needed to say that to me? Why he HAD to tell me that? If I engage him he'll want to discuss it.Possible response: "Jesus Christ's life far too closely parallels Titus Flavious's military campaigns and it's eight degrees outside. There's no way that denim jacket is keeping you warm."Whatever his assumptions are they have absolutely nothing to do with me. This moment is entirely for him to feel like he did a good deed.Possible response: "I liked you more when I thought you wanted to scalp me and taste my belly button."There is absolutely no point in explaining just how much this bothers me to him. He believes he has something infallible and perfect over his shoulder and any disagreement against that automatically makes me wrong. Also it means I'll have to continue talking to him.Possible response: "Clearly your parents never taught you that it's rude to discuss politics and religion in the company of strangers. For future reference, if you wouldn't say it to a room full of heavily armed fundamentalists, you shouldn't say it to just anybody."I want Olive Garden right now. Maybe dinner? No. No. I just spent money on lunch.Possible response: "Shoo, fly! Shoo!"Possible response: "Look, dude. You can lie to yourself but don't lie to me." No. No. It sounds good but too much explanation is needed.The Christian thing to do would be to turn the other cheek. -wait, what? Holy shit, he came!I really had no idea how to react so I very politely said, "Thank you."
But even as I said it he was already turning and walking away. Over his shoulder he said, "I hope you know that!" With some definite foreboding in his voice. I had to take a second to put the whole thing together but. "Jesus Christ loves you and is coming for you. I hope you know that!" without even noticing that I said thank you... That asshole was judging me! He saw some random chubby dude, eating a sandwich, off in his own little world, and immediately decided that out of all the patrons at Panera that day, I was the one most filled with sin. And to his credit, he probably wasn't that far off. But he didn't know that! I was sitting, silently by myself, disturbing nobody. And he picked me!
If the guy whose only known sin is eating a sandwich is going to hell then what chance does anybody have?

Lightscrew Saber

Longtime readers of This Worthless Life know that we're fond of a particular phrase. "Corkscrew dildo."
And there's a perfectly rational reason behind this. 
Although to be honest, I really don't think we need a reason to laugh at those two little words.
Anyway, early on when my muse and I were still getting to know each other, my sense of humor was turned up to eleven. Because, you know, she's gorgeous and I was compensating for all my being hideous and stuff. That being said, I have a severe tendency to get a little dark and tasteless in my joking around. And I'll never remember what I specifically said to her, likely something along the lines of dead babies being spartan kicked into some bottomless goatse pit. Or at least something about as sophisticated as such imagery. And I immediately became conscious of how awkward and fucked up I am, so naturally I apologized. And she responded with. "That's okay. I'm more fucked up than a corkscrew dildo."
And in that moment I remember thinking, "I love you." I didn't say it because if there was one more thing more fucked up than dead babies being spartan kicked into some bottomless goatse pit, it was those three little words. But it was the feeling.
That said, I made the below image in fond memory of her words. Enjoy!

On crossing bridges

Over the past few years I've developed this irrational fear of being in a traffic jam on a bridge and the bridge collapses under the weight of all the cars. 
I'm sure there's some ridiculous phobia name for it. I just don't care enough to do the research.
I mention this because it's my current situation.

Eight minutes and no sign of moving.
It's just me. And these other people. In our incredibly heavy cars. On wet pavement that's probably eroding an accelerated rate due to cutbacks at the cement company. In Michigan where the potholes spend most of their days belittling the Grand Canyon.
I think part of it is that there's no real survival plan in this scenario. I don't know if I should attempt to leap from my car. Do I lean forward? Quickly lower the back of my seat so I'm lying down with my back straight? Windows- lowered or raised? Both hands on the wheel? Both hands on my head? Will it help if I shit myself and create a cushion? I only ask because that's probably going to happen anyway so I'd like to think that when the firefighters pull my mangled corpse from the wreck they'll view it as an indicator that I did everything I could to survive.
"Man. The windows are down. Seat all the way back. He shat himself raw and somehow he still didn't make it. I mean, have you ever seen so much shit in one man's pants? He must've had Chinese food wrapped in Taco Bell for lunch. What a fighter. It's a shame that even he was no match for these tons upon tons of poorly constructed and/or maintained concrete."
And as long as traffic still isn't moving, why not get into the news report.
"Mild tragedy struck today when indy author Keith Blenman died shitting himself senseless in his car while defending himself against a collapsing bridge. Media savvy witnesses likened the scene to tubgirl goatsie-ing and erupting Pompeii all over the place. Unfortunately the bridge collapsing was just far too epic. Keith's car flipped over and then was crushed by like a billion slabs of concrete and bunches of other cars too. Lackadaisical construction workers are to receive medals for not adequately reinforcing the bridge and thus preventing Keith from finishing his fictional monster story series, Roadside Attraction. Oh and some other people died too."
Anyway, there's no real strategy to surviving a bridge crumbling beneath you. Hang on. Or don't. It doesn't matter.  Just feel the world collapse beneath you and, "good luck fucker!"
That said, traffic's moving...

Lamest update ever.

I just discovered this about my flip flops:


Nevermind that I bought these about two months ago and just now paid enough attention to notice the words on the bottom. The point is simply that they make want to give this speech:

199 posts including this one.

It seems silly to point it out, but this is my one hundred and ninety-ninth post.

Don't you feel special for reading it?

It probably shouldn't but I can't help but feel mildly pressured to come up with something really amazing for the two hundredth one. I mean huge!

...And I got nothing.