Putting the Civil Back in Civilization, part N+1: Fabric Softener and Manners

So, an interesting thing happened to me today. And by interesting, I mean a moment or two of High Weirdness.

To set the scene: My wife and I live in an apartment complex. Our apartment does not have washer/ dryer hook-ups. So, never mind the fact that I did the responsible thing in my twenties, and saved up and bought a washer and dryer – which still work – the Wife and I have to use the complex’s laundry facilities. This is what we were spending part of our Monday night accomplishing when the event of our story took place.

Note: We have been living and doing laundry here for roughly 6 years. Nothing even remotely like this has ever happened before. 

We put our clothes in to wash. The cycle takes exactly 28 minutes. I always set a timer. And in 6 years, we have never been the people who leave their laundry in the machine for anymore time than it takes to wash them. The wife will not abide wrinkles.

So, the timer goes off and we truck the 40 yards to the laundry room. Takes maybe, minute, minute and a half to get there. When we get there, someone (a nice young lady who didn’t really know what she was doing, and was really emotionally freaked out by what follows) had transferred about two-thirds of my laundry into dryers.

Now, I’m thankful my stuff didn’t end up on the floor or in a trash can, but it is still unsettling to discover some stranger has been handling your things.

Ok, I get the rest of my stuff and put it in another dryer, but I can’t shake this feeling of violation, of general creepiness.

So, I do what it is my practice to do: try to diffuse the situation with a little bit of humor.

To wit, I introduce myself to the young lady, and get her name – which I will not share here. Then I make a joke roughly in these words, “I figure if someone’s handled my drawers, I should know their name.”

Now, that statement can go badly, so I make certain I’m smiling, and the smile makes it to my eyes. The young lady has become – before the statement – as uncomfortable with what has happened as I am. So, for both of us, I’m trying to laugh it off, and show I’m laughing it off.

And it almost worked.

You see, the young lady had moved my things, because an older lady in the room had told her it was okay, that “we did it all the time around here.”

I’ll take this time to point out that, in fact, no we do not do that kind of thing around here.

At this point in time, the older lady – oh, let’s just call her CrazyasFuck – begins to take offence at my attempts at diffusion. This is when I find out that it was her urging (CrazyasFuck), that led the young lady to act in a manner that she thought was appropriate.

(I could say something about the young lady, but she was so freaked out by what transpired that I can only conclude she has led a very sheltered life.)

So, CrazyasFuck has derailed my attempts to play this off with levity. And now she’s pissing me off because she’s acting like I have no right to feel put out, just because someone strange to me had handled my personal property, without my permission. 

Well, I really couldn’t laugh that off.

So, I asked CrazyasFuck if she could understand why I might feel just a bit unnerved, a bit violated. I wasn’t loud, I didn’t cuss. I was polite and even, which surprised the Wife. I just tried to speak. And that’s when CrazyasFuck lived up to her name.

She decided she didn’t want to hear me. And she said, “That’s it, I’m closing the door on this conversation.”

Like some weird, therapy roll-play. When I wouldn’t play along, she told me and my wife, that we could both leave. Dismissed us like she had any kind of authority to do so.

And I said, “Not now. You’ve already been into my things. I’m not leaving you alone with them.”

And that is how I ended up talking to the cops, in the laundry room of my apartment complex, on a Monday evening.

She actually called 911.

And the cops came. To the 911 dispatcher’s credit, the dispatcher believed that CrazyasFuck was reporting a man in the laundry room who wouldn’t put his clothes on.

The look of relief on the officer’s faces when they rounded the corner to find me fully attired was almost worth the weirdness that got us there.

We all talked to the cops, even CrazyasFuck. During the interview, which was thankfully easy, the officers came to realize just how bat-shit CrazyasFuck really was. Now, they didn’t write her a citation for calling the police unnecessarily, but the older partner gave her a stern talking to. By the time the police left, the expressions on their faces told me they knew exactly what we were going through.

So, it ended up getting straightened out.

Only took the cops, and a representative from the apartment complex to do it, but it got done.

Why, you may be asking, does this high weirdness qualify as a teachable moment for this series discussing civility in modern life?

Well, what occurred to me –when I finally got to fold my laundry – was that all of this happened because CrazyasFuck couldn’t just admit she was wrong.

Here’s how it maybe should have gone, in a better world:

CrazyasFuck did me wrong (well incited someone else to wrong me), and it was not a big wrong. I get to – within the bounds of decorum – express my displeasure at the wrong. CrazyasFuck apologizes. I accept the apology – it was a small wrong after all. And the incident is over before it begins.

Done. Polite, like adults. And we move on with our lives.

That seems like the way to go, to me at least.

No cops. No belligerence. No more drama than is minutely necessary to complete the action. And we’re done. It’s not a big thing if we don’t make it a big thing.

I suppose the second thing to take away from all this is, we are living in a time that encourages going straight for the nuclear option. Everything is extreme, or a red line, or a stand off. (Maybe that’s just the ratings-whore media.)

Maybe, if there’s a second moral to be sifted from this debris, it is that a proportional, calm, appropriate-to-the-severity-of-the-situation response is the better option.

Maybe there isn’t a moral at all, and I just need to move the fuck out of this neighborhood.

If you figure it out, let me know. 

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Fitness Update: The Long and Winding Road

(My apologies to the Beatles)

Been a while since I’ve done one of these, let’s have a bit of catch up, shall we?

So, back at the beginning of January, I started a diet to cut some of my fat. It both worked and didn’t work. I know, confused me too. Here’s how it went: I planned for a 12 week diet. For the first 9 weeks or so, I lost weight at a safe rate; average about 1 lb per week. Then at about week 10, I started to gain it all back with amazing rapidity. There are many confounding variables here, but I think the two most important were that my calories were way too low, (1700 is too way too little for me), and my thyroid levels were lower than they’ve been in the last 4-5 years.

(I have a long history of thyroid disregulation, both Hypo and Hyper. One of these days, I’ll write more about that, when I feel like I can do so without it turning into some kind of excuse for my insane behavior over the years. Oh, it definitely had something to do with it, but that’s another story.)

So, in the span of about 2-3 weeks I gained back all of the weight I had lost, plus about 2 pounds. All this while continuing to exercise regularly and maintaining strict adherence to my diet.

So, in light of my blood work results, I’m back on a low dose of thyroid hormone, to see if it helps.

I have also restructured my diet. That’s something I’m continuing to experiment with to find the combination of macro and micro-nutrients that makes me feel the best while still working on increasing my health.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m still going to work on getting the extra fat off my ass – and every where else – but it’s just one of the things I’m trying to accomplish.

So, as for stats, (because I know posts like this are ruled by the numbers), here’s where I stand as of today:

Weight: 261 lbs

Body Fat percentage: 27.9% (too high, but no longer medically dangerous).

Squat: 340lbs for 3 sets of 5

Deadlift: 340 lbs for 1 set of 5

Bench: 260 lbs for 3 sets of 5

Overhead press: 172.5 lbs for 3 sets of 5

Since I last had my body composition tested, last September – I use the BodyPod – I have put on 14.2 lbs of lean body mass, and only 4 lbs of fat mass. Which astounded me, because I feel like a busted can of biscuits most days. But that’s why I track data, because my intuition for such things is terribly inaccurate. So, I’ve gotten stronger, I’ve gotten bigger, and my body composition percentage hasn’t changed in about 7 months.

I’m on a diet break right now. Dieting is a stress on the system and shouldn’t be kept up year round. sometimes you have to eat at your maintenance calories and let your body de-stress. This break is only going to be 7-8 weeks. In that time, while not losing fat, I’m not standing still. I’m continuing to pursue my strength goals. Which, right now, are:

Squat: 405 lbs for 3 sets of 5

Deadlift: 405 lbs for 1 set of 5

Bench and Overhead Press: as high as they’ll go – safely – in the interval.

After this diet break, I’m going to stop focusing on gaining strength and focus solely on losing fat. It is almost impossible, except for beginners in their first 1-2 years of training, to gain muscle or strength, while losing fat. After a while the numbers just win. I’ve been training for a while now, and it’s time to focus specifically on one or the other, in order to achieve more optimal results.

Also, I’m not a strength athlete, and I’m not going into competition – like ever – so, getting too much stronger than I am now just isn’t worth the loss of mobility and risk of injury. Plus, I’m tired of being so fat.

I’ll admit it, I’m at least that vain.

Losing the excess fat will also greatly improve my health, and that won’t suck.

But that’s where I am at the moment, about 8 weeks from my 39th birthday and stronger than I’ve ever been.

I suppose I should say something motivational here. Don’t know if I’ve had enough coffee for that but here goes:

I’m getting old, I’m fat, and I feel sloppy as a soup sandwich. But I’m achieving my goals. The path snakes a lot sometimes, but it continues forward.

If I can do this, You can do this.

That’s it.

(Also, you can thank whatever gods you pray to that I’m sticking to my pledge of not posting pictures. I have too much respect for you to subject you to that.)

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A Quick Guide to Changing the World:

“Things fall apart,” so the poem tells us. It sure feels like that most days now – here in America, at least. And sometime you might want to do something about it, if you have the energy. For those of you who have reached that point, here is how to make a lasting difference:

1) Change Yourself   (seriously, even if he didn’t actually say it, Gandhi had the right idea here. If you see something lacking in the world, make yourself into someone that fills that gap. At least that way you will live in a world where the problem has been addressed, even if only by you… at first.)

2) Be an Example   (Once you’ve made the change in yourself, don’t hide it. Show the world how it works, at least in your case.)

3) Teach others who Want to Learn  (Be like a guru; let them come to you. No proselytizing please.)

4) Wait   (Really, just be patient. It matters.)

That’s it gang. As Willy Wonka sang, “Want to change the world? There’s nothing to it.”

[Civic engagement, engaging with your democracy, community organizing, voting, political campaigns, all political activism, well, you can find out how to do that just about anywhere. This is the most basic – so far as I have discovered – process required to actually change the world. Be better. Show ‘em a better way. Teach those that want to learn. Wait. ]

There’s your guide. Good luck.

(Disclaimer: The first step is often the most difficult and time consuming.)

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And You didn’t Think You were a Farmer…

For some unfathomable reason I woke up thinking about parables this morning. So, this post might be a little heavy on the parable and metaphor. Also, this will not constitute some kind of introductory class on what parables and metaphors are. If you need that, go get educated before you get into the weeds here. Barring an apocalypse of any severity, this post should still be here when you get back.

The parable I woke up thinking about – and why my brain decided to deconstruct it while half awake I’ll never know – was the parable of the seed. It’s probably got a proper name that I am too de-caffeinated to currently recall. But briefly, the parable goes like this: a farmer had some seed. Some he threw on the rocks, and the birds ate it. Some he threw on dry earth, and the seed withered. Some he threw on to rich soil and the seeds grew and prospered/ flowered, etc… 

If you’ve even heard of Sunday School, you’ve probably heard this parable.

We are told, maybe, eventually, what the parts of the parable are supposed to represent: the seed = God’s love, the various landscapes are the various hearts/ minds of people. So, we are meant to understand that only a certain type of disposition can be receptive to The Word, God’s Love, Divine Light, whatever. You get the drift.

I think, if you’ve read this blog at all, you probably know where I stand on the topic of God. No need to belabor that point here. But the parable stuck with me.

And we tend to scratch things that itch, don’t we?

So, let’s pull back to the bones of the parable.

If we strip it down to its essentials, we get the fairly basic notion that only a receptive mind can accept certain types of ideas. (I’ll bet, if you’re over the age of say 10, you already understand this fact of human existence.)

Now, let’s play with it a little.

If the rocks represent people who are too set in their ways to grasp new ideas – hardened against new influences, as it might be, and the rich soil represents the people who have the necessary elements in their characters – say, and openness to new influences – where does that leave the dry soil?

The parable presents us with a continuum of human experience: Set in Stone, Receptive, and that one in the middle. But the parable doesn’t describe it as it a coherent whole of experience. It sets each part of the scale as separate and wholly different things.

But if you look closely and honestly at yourself, you’ll see that you contain, within you, all three dispositions of mind. We are all set in some ways, receptive in others, and in between on still others.

This may be getting too broad in scope. So, let’s narrow it a bit.

Assume, as the parable does, that the seed/ idea being spread is a good idea, something that would contribute to human flourishing. (Doesn’t have to be the God idea. Just a good idea in general.) Suppose also that the idea is universally good – that it would benefit any and all who embrace it. And following from that supposition, if an idea were that good, we would want as many people to embrace it as possible.

So then, the question would be: how to enrich the dry soil?

Ok, so the rock, you can’t do anything about. Just let it alone and wait for the wind and the weather to wear it down, back into something useable again. The good earth, we don’t need to worry about. It’s got everything it needs, except the idea, already.

It’s the dry soil we, as metaphorical farmers, should be concerned about.

And here’s where these metaphors intertwine: as farmers, we don’t just cast seed. We tend to the soil. We fertilize, condition, aerate, and irrigate. We give the soil the nutrients – the support for growth – that it lacks. And that’s how you turn a field that withers into a field that flowers.

For the religious minded among you, this is not a terribly new idea. Religions have been fertilizing  and conditioning young minds to produce the kind of environment where some truly preposterous ideas can take root and thrive, for millennia.

But I’m not really talking to the religiously minded here.

It’s the rest of us that need to take a page from that playbook, and put it into action where it can do some real good.

For us, the fertilizer is education. The soil conditioning is kindness. The aerating and irrigation are critical thinking and debate.

To have and create minds that are not just receptive, but that can be generative of new and good ideas, we must, as farmers/ tenders/ stewards of the society-culture provide those minds with the nutrients and the structures that encourage growth.

And then we must – as a farmer does with crops – provide a framework and let them grow.

(A framework, in this metaphor is guidance. Guidance is very different from coercion. Insistence on uniformity and conformity is coercion. Guidance is example and encouragement.)

All that being said, even good farmers sometimes lose crops. You can’t bring all of them into harvest, and we won’t. But as religions throughout time have known, we may not get them all, but we’ll get enough. Enough is all we need. Enough might just keep us from destroying ourselves and the carrying capacity of our planet.

Enough might bring us peace and prosperity.

Enough might let us remember who we really are to one another.

(It’s a dream, maybe, but that’s my brain in the morning for you. Those days are the best that begin with dreams.)

There’s more to be said on this subject. Probably many more thousands of words. But this is enough to get us started.

Oh, before I’m done with this metaphor:

As long as you’re this deep in the weeds, why not pull a few. Might give room for something better to spring up in their place.

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Something Sweet

I originally posted this on Facebook, but it has become difficult to find. Feel free to play with the recipe. If you come up with any interesting modifications, please post them in the comments.

Gluten Free Nut Bars


1 cup each:





2 cups gluten free rice cereal

2 cups gluten free pretzel sticks

1/2 cup honey

1/4 almond butter

1/4 cup brown sugar

1-2 tbs salted butter

2 tsp vanilla

1 tsp salt

1 10 oz package of dark chocolate chunks, (I use 62%)



Roast nuts in a 300 degree oven for 10-12 minutes.

(When nuts have cooled, roughly chop half of them – if you like)

Leave oven at 300 degrees

Break up pretzel sticks into chunks and mix in zip top bag w/ rice cereal & cooled nuts

Line a 9″x13″ pan with parchment paper

In a medium sauce pan mix honey, nut butter, salt, and butter. Heat over medium until mixture loosens up some. Add brown sugar and stir, over heat, until sugar is dissolved.

Remove from heat, then add vanilla. Stir to incorporate.

Stir nuts and dry mixture into wet mixture. (use a sturdy spoon. it will not look like enough liquid to coat the dry – it is, just keep stirring/ folding)

* the liquid mixture will be hot and sticky, like candy napalm. Be careful *

When all ingredients are mixed, spread in an even layer in pan. Place in oven and cook for 25 minutes. Remove and allow to cool completely before de-panning.

(This is where you can break this into two sections. I often allow the bar to cool over night before moving on to the next step.)

With a heavy knife, cut large bar into smaller bars. (I usually cut it into sixteen separate bars, but cut it as you like.)

In a small to medium Pyrex bowl, heat 2/3 of the chocolate in the microwave. How long this takes depends on your microwave. I put it in for 45 seconds, then for 30 second intervals. You’ll know it’s there when the bottom layer of the chocolate begins to look melty but not melted. Do not microwave until all of the chocolate looks melted – you will burn your chocolate.

Take out the chocolate and stir, the residual heat should melt the rest of the chocolate in the bowl to a smooth consistency. If it doesn’t, microwave for another 20-30 seconds. When you have a smooth consistency, add the rest of the room temperature chocolate. Again, the residual heat should melt it without a problem. This is called seeding the chocolate and will help it hold its temper.

(if you know how to temper chocolate, feel free to do it the proper way. This is just a quick and dirty way to get it done.)

Dip the bottom/ smooth side of bars in chocolate and remove excess- as you like – with a spatula. Allow bars to rest, upside down, until chocolate sets.

Wrap in wax paper and store in zip top bags. Will keep in refrigerator for a long while.

Be sure to allow bars to reach room temperature before eating, unless you like a very sore jaw.

My version makes 16 servings, but can be more depending on how you cut the bars.


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Updates and Earworms…

It seems like every time I sit down to write one of these things, my brain stares out into the abyss and goes shrieking off to some dark corner. It’s there currently, knees curled to its chest, rocking and softly singing “Mary had a little lamb,” over and over and over again.

I am writing on sheer instinct at this point.

I would tell you what exactly sends my brain scurrying for the quiet dark, but when I think about it…

… “Mary Had A Little Lamb,” …

…and it keeps getting louder. So, we’ll table any discussions that involve sanity-preserving repetitions of nursery rhymes, for now.

Let’s do a little updatery, shall we?

I have dug out my electric typewriter, and much to my wife’s chagrin, have begun using it to write things.

What things?

I can’t tell you. With a few, and very rare exceptions, I try not to talk about a work in progress, lest the emotional cues I pick up from others interfere with my own emotional process of writing. I’ll get cues from others when I have a serviceable draft, or three. It won’t be too long.

Hell, I’m just happy to be back at it.

With the exception of some notes and a couple of poems, I hadn’t written anything in a year. Depression will do that to you. Well, to me – as the case may be.

What else?

I’ve taken a giant backward step from Facebook. I haven’t dropped off completely, but I have really stopped reading posts. I figure if it’s important, someone will tag me in it, or – heaven forefend  – actually text me. (It is probably too much to hope to receive a real life telephone call, but that might be for the best. They get awkward after a couple of minutes anyway.)

Strangely enough, I’m too lazy to adjust twitter so it doesn’t auto-repost to Facebook. So, all of my tweets, and this blog will end up on Facebook by dint of chain reaction. Where, in all likelihood, the comments I receive for any given blog will vastly outnumber the comments that actually end up on my blog. There’s some kind of interweaving of irony there, but…


Yeah, that.

In short, I’ve dropped off the Facebook carousel for one main reason: People are fucking nuts.

Even people I love, respect, and admire.

Fekkin’ batshit nuts.

What is it about social media that promotes the most petty, vain, illogical, and mean-spiritedness in us?

(That’s not a rhetorical question, by the way. I’ve been researching, but if you have some reasoned answers, I’d love to hear them.)

So, it came to a head when one member of my extended family posted something quite ranty, but obviously pointed towards a particular individual. This member of my family did not mention said person’s name, because the poster has a sense of dignity and decorum. I was going to post a comment in support, maybe something soothing. That was my intention, anyway. Then I saw the list of comments that preceded me, and I began to lose heart. Just some of the most vicious, soulless, mean-spirited shit about whole swaths of the American public. The kind of statements that include the term, “those people”.  Insanely broad generalizations, and unearned, ignorant self righteousness.

It made me a little ill.

That’s not hyperbole. I actually got queasy. 

My usual shtick is to educate and argue. For some reason I didn’t do that this time. This time, all I did was ask – ask – that people take a second to realize that maybe they didn’t have all the information, and could we try to have some compassion.


That’s what I asked for.

Can you guess what happened next? I bet you can.

I got attacked. A lot.

You’d think I had made a bad joke about someone’s dead mother. (I have a few of those. Ask me sometime.)

I argued, for a while. Being the only unpopular opinion in the room doesn’t frighten me nearly as much as it used to. Also, I’m quite capable of being a mean bastard when the moment requires it. But this was sickening.

Sickening like the first time you see unedited car wreck photos, and you resolve, then and there, to never drive without your seat belt firmly fastened, regardless of how short the trip.

(Incidentally, I am that guy.) 

And I had to stop.

Too much hate. Too much nonsense. Too much.

And all because I asked people to have some compassion – to maybe not be so vicious with people they had never met, in all likelihood will never meet.


That was their bridge too far.

So, I’m off, for I don’t know how long. I’ll check in, from time to time, because I really don’t have any other way to get in touch with some people.

It’s been a couple of weeks now, and you know what? I don’t miss it. And I do feel better for not bathing in that miasmic swamp of mean-crazy.

(Disclaimer: yes, I know that not everyone on Facebook is crazy. But it feels an awful lot like it since a certain campaign cycle kicked off more than a year ago. )

What else?

After a two month hiatus, two rounds of antibiotics, and about 4 weeks of physical therapy I finally got to start going back to the gym. Been back at it into the third week now. Cautiously optimistic and trying not to hurt myself. Managing fairly well so far. Should be a couple more weeks before I’m back to the strength I was before I had to take the forced downtime, but that’s okay. It’ll come back.

Well, that’s probably enough for now. The Nursery rhymes are coming slower and less frantic now. Maybe I’ll go watch some TV. Maybe I’ll see what’s been happening on the news…


Well, so much for that.

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Finally Getting to “Fuck It”

I have the most interesting conversations. It is one of the true delights in my life; conversation.

It also scares the hell out of me. (Seems to be the way that kind of thing goes in life, but that’s the topic for another discussion).

Anyway, the conversations I have are so interesting because, much like this blog, they allow me to solidify my thoughts on any given subject.

Conversation, and writing, help me to understand. To understand you, them, the world, but most importantly, to understand me.

(That, you’ll find if you’ve looked, is often the most difficult thing to understand: one’s self.)

So what does this strange prelude about my wondrous conversations – that you should so totally be jealous of – have to do with how this post is titled?

Glad you asked.

I was having a conversation, recently, with a friend when just such a moment occurred. We were discussing various projects and how sometimes we can stall out on them for various reasons. My friend and I share an unreasonable penchant for pursuing perfection in our own works. (I suppose an artist, of any stripe, never does quite think the art is finished). I also have a problem that he doesn’t: depression.

You’ve read my mentioning of it before, no need to delve quite so deeply into it now.

So we were talking about various obstacles to completing projects when I said two things that happened to be personally, seriously true – without intending to do so.

The first is that I spend a lot of time managing my mental state.

(This is probably why I seem, outwardly, fairly normal to anyone that isn’t having an interesting conversation with me).

The second concerns stalls in projects. This will require some more explanation for you to understand.

(Sometimes there are no shortcuts; no TLDRs. Sorry.)

So, one of my primary mottos is: engineer around your own shortcomings. (Find what keeps you getting in your own way and work around it. Know thyself – basically – and act accordingly). I do this a lot. And by a lot, I mean, a metric fuck-ton. Like all the time. I’m always trying to discover if I’m stepping on my own dick and if there is, just maybe, a better place to put my foot.

Now, because I have been a lifelong depressive, and because I have been a lifelong creative – no those two aren’t necessarily intertwined – I have the urge to create; almost constantly, but I have no energy or motivation to get started.

Knowing this about myself, I find ways to engineer around it.

For me, the best way has always been: let the initial inspiration/ motivation/ what-have-you get me going and ride that for as long as possible, re-invigorating it – as often as possible – throughout the process until either I have completed the project, or I have set a temporary habit well enough in place to let that momentum carry me on as the project progresses.

There are, if you’re at all quick, some inherent problems with this approach.

I am not quick.

The biggest problem is outside interference. Bad weather, unavoidable, intractable schedules, sickness, injury, that kind of thing. Those throw a huge monkey wrench into my program. They create breaks in my momentum. Spaces for bad things to happen.

You see, it is in my nature to doubt, and doubt myself most of all. If a sufficiently long break – and that length can vary, one week, one day, one hour, etc.. – occurs that knocks me out of my practice, doubt creeps in.

Wait, creeps isn’t the right word.


Yeah, that’s closer to it. (If Tsunami can be a verb. I tsunami, he/ she  tsunamis, they tsunami…).

Doubt and an unreasonable desire for perfection.

And those two things can fuck me right off a project, if they get enough of a hold on me.


Here we come to the second of my conversational realizations: Doubt and perfectionism stall me out and send me hurtling back towards the earth, but somewhere, just before I hit the ground, I reach “Fuck it”.

“Fuck it” has pulled me out of more deep dives than anything else in my repertoire of coping skills.

“Fuck it” saves me; probably more often than could be reasonably expected.

(I’d send “Fuck it” a thank you fruit basket, but “Fuck it” wouldn’t care. Also, the postage would be murder.)

When the depression, and the doubt, and the unreasonable standards for myself push me further and further down the hill towards despair, sometimes I get to “Fuck it” and it gives me the energy I need to get back up the other side.

I’m not perfect

Fuck it.

I’ll screw it up.

Fuck it.

I’ll look like a damn fool.

Fuck It!

Sometimes “Fuck it” is all I have to keep me going.

Sometimes “Fuck it” is all I need.

So, here’s to finally getting to “Fuck it”, and being able to get moving again.

Feel free to use it if it works for you. Maybe you’ll find a little bit of comfort in it too.

Maybe not.

Oh well…

Fuck it.

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