November 22, 2016

A three-peat of posts? Who do I think I am, the Chicago Bulls? Incredible!

(The Bulls won championships in 1991, 1992, and 1993, and again in 1996, 1997, and 1998 for those who didn’t quite get the poor joke I made. Thank you to those who found it humorous. And yes, I had to google my own joke.)

I just got done with my weekly therapy session and I felt the need to write, so I am doing so at the coffee shop close to home, and I’m sipping on chamomile tea and eating the best goddamn frosted sugar cookie I’ve had in a while. It’s crumbly and I’m sure some have fallen onto the keyboard, let alone the fact I’m typing with one slightly sticky hand now (from the cookie; gross, you guys. Grow up). This is why I can’t have nice things.

Tonight, I’m going to address something that I struggle with, and that is The V Word.

No, not “vagina,” although I like to joke that I could never be a lesbian because I am squeamish around other cunts. Bless anyone’s heart for dealing with these things. I thank you for your service.

No, sillies, I mean VULNERABILITY. 

(Insert a great clap of thunder, terrifying lightning, and flickering electronic devices as the word is read.)

First of all, what is it? The dictionary defines it as such: vul·ner·a·ble–adjective; susceptible to physical or emotional attack or harm. Synonyms include helpless, defenseless, powerless, impotent, weak, susceptible. Used in a sentence, “We were in vulnerable position.”

In general, I do not like to make myself feel any of the above. I am smart enough to realize I cannot prevent this from happening, but goddamn it if I don’t try. I do take issue with the word “weak,” though. I don’t find being vulnerable as being weak. It takes a great deal of courage to express yourself in a way as to be perceived as being vulnerable. Opening up and exposing the raw bits of you to other people is terrifying, which is why I don’t do it, or do it very rarely.

I never considered myself to be a controlling person, but with the amount of self-awareness I’ve been made to do over the last few months via therapy, I certainly can be! I recall a moment this last July when with two people I trust, one asked if they could drive since I had been doing all of it. I quickly said, “no!” And then followed up with “don’t take away the minimal amount of power I have!”

I can also be a bit of a control freak at work to an extent. I don’t like accepting help from coworkers unless I am forced to. I like to think I have shit under control most of the time, but will begrudgingly ask for assistance when it comes down to it.

I do most things by myself, as well. If I have a problem, yo, I’ll solve it, check out this hook while the DJ revolves it. I detest asking for help, although again, I will when I must. I won’t like it, but I’ll do it.

My dad was like this, too. When he was going through chemo and it really started to kick his ass, whenever we would go to his oncologist and she’d ask him how he was doing, knowing two weeks prior, he was puking his guts out, in pain, and leading a miserable existence, he’d smile and say he was doing okay.

“You’re not going to get a medal for pretending everything is OK when I know it hasn’t been, Dan,” she said to him one time. I started clapping and yelled “THANK YOU!” to her, because from my point of view, he was enduring so much but trying to act like it wasn’t a big deal. It’s cool, I got this…while breaking down crying at having me to see him in such a low state.

Sound familiar to anyone? Huh. The apple didn’t fall far from the tree.

I could probably think myself stupid as to why I am also this way, and believe me, I’ve tried. I think most of it comes from not wanting to bother anyone. I know that’s annoyingly cliche and the stereotypical reply, but truly y’all. We all have our own shit to deal with, why should I encumber  you with my problems, as well? I shouldn’t, so I don’t.

And yet, by doing so, I inadvertently push people away and I sit and wonder, “gosh, where is everyone?” I never claimed to be smart.

Also, historically speaking, and it seems like I’m really ragging on the old husband a lot lately, and I totally am because fuck that guy, I became controlling and fearful of asking for help because I couldn’t rely on him for anything, from talking to me to knowing what the fuck to do if an appliance broke. His solution was to ignore it, which trickled down to me quite literally. If you ignore it, it goes away, right? Well, yes, which is why he’s my ex-husband. Ooh! Burn.

Tonight, Therapist and I were discussing what I do with my emotions when I have them. I know it seems like I don’t do anything with them, but that’s far from the truth. I just internalize the shit out of them, but not the way of suppressing them, but rather raging a battle in my head about what I feel. Pissed off? I will fucking rip you to shreds in my thoughts. I know I am angry, I understand why I am angry, and I do let myself be angry, but you’ll hardly know it, save the ultra-mature method of sulking and pouting. I don’t want to fly off the cuff at you in an outburst of fury and say shit I will regret and never can take back, so I stew in it. Then, I ruminate over it. I try to see the other person’s point of view and what happened that made me angry and try to understand them, if that makes sense in my jumbled wording.

You make me mad, I get mad, but then I try to empathize with you, saying stuff like, “well, it wasn’t meant to be taken that way, I’m just overreacting to the situation,” and in doing so, I calm myself down. In theory, it’s actually a great practice. It’s mindful as fuck, too. But it’s also counterproductive because my emotions and feelings are valid and real, so express those fuckers! But I get worried I’ll offend or say something awful, so I have the argument meant for two people in my mind like some sort of crazy person.

Therapist then said, “you have no trouble expressing yourself when you write.” There has nary been a truer statement uttered in all of mankind.

You know why I love to write, especially about shit like this?

Because I have control over every aspect of it. I can write what I feel and not have to deal with someone trying to get their two cents in, or getting me flustered, or talking over me to make their point. I can say what I want to say in the safety of my own space, I can stop and think for a few seconds before I type without having the conversation commandeered from me. I don’t have to make myself vulnerable to another person. I mean, writing is fucking amazing and I love it.

Some of you probably don’t love it as much as I do. Actually, there’s no “probably” about that. I know some of you hate that I can write so well about a variety of things, yet can’t open my gob in person.

I know I’ve been saying this for a while now, but I’m trying to work on it. In fact, my weekly homework assignment is to intentionally be open with someone in person. Oh my gooooodddddd. I recoiled in terror at that. But I’m willing to give it a shot. Lucky for me, most of you do not exhibit the same traits as the guy I used to be married to, so I take comfort in the fact that whomever I speak to won’t wander off to get stoned or stare blankly at the television while playing video games, so that’s nice for me.

Also, please let me say this: I know I’ve been running my ex through the fucking ringer, and I want to say that he really is a good guy. Truly, he is. He just happens to be a major component on my road to understanding myself better, so unfortunately, he’s getting his ass unknowingly kicked. Sorry, dude.

I hope this makes some modicum of sense, and I hope I used the word “modicum” properly.

I want the important people in my life to read this and gain some small amount of understanding. I want them to also know I am committed to resolving my problems. That’s one thing both Therapist and the psychologist I saw said in common: “Erin, you want so badly to get better.”

They’re right. I do want to, and I will some day. Not today, though.

As usual and always, thank you for reading.





November 21, 2016

Two posts in as many days? By golly, it’s a pre-Christmas miracle! God bless us, every one! Give a bitch her laptop back and suddenly she thinks she’s David Foster Wallace!

I’m currently at work, waiting out the last 30 minutes of my shift before I can go home and probably over-analyze things that have happened today because that is, as the kids say, what I do.

Back in October, after having been on five different medications since March of this year, and always questioning my original diagnosis of Bipolar 2, I sought out a psychologist to do a mental health assessment to help determine what exactly is wrong with me…brain-wise, that is, and even that is a crapshoot.

I ended up taking the MMPI-2 test, which is the most widely used among head doctors. It is 600 questions of fun and took about 2 hours to answer; not because the questions were difficult or anything, but after a while, you start second-guessing yourself due to repeated questions, but in slightly different wording. It’s actually quite like the often poo-poo’ed Myers Briggs personality tests (INFP, thankyouverymuch), which I mean, yeah, that test is goofy, and admittedly, so was the MMPI-2, but if it can be used to help me manage my medications, aka find the right fucking kind of medication for fucking goddamn fucking once, I’m all for spending 2 hours on a couch in my shrink’s office.

A few days after I took it, I got told I needed further testing because this test can apparently tell when you’re flubbing the system and will render it invalid. I didn’t do that, but some of my answers were so wild in comparison to other questions, I had to come back in and chat with the psychologist a little more so she could make a more educated evaluation of me.

She started asking me questions like “do you think you’re overly particular about your personal space?” and “does it make you upset when someone borrows something of yours and doesn’t return it in the exact same spot?” The more of these types of questions she asked me, I was hip to her OCD jive and even said so to her. Hey there, lady; what are you getting at here? Can I wash my hands a few times real quick? (kidding.)

After talking with me for an hour, she said she’d have her preliminary report done in a week and come in for feedback. Okay! I was morbidly curious about it. I mean, I knew depression and anxiety would be the biggest winners of the day, but what additional piece would present itself?

As expected, I am the proud owner of a major depressive disorder of the recurrent type, generalized anxiety disorder, and drum roll please…I display several traits of obsessive compulsive personality disorder. I also have a highly addictive personality. At first she tossed out “schizo-effective disorder” and I think she saw the panic in my eyes because she quickly countered with “I don’t think you’re schizophrenic. I think your GAD (ultra-hip psych talk) is the main root of your problems with your mood.”

Ya think? Or like how I cannot wind my brain down even the slightest bit which leads to over-processing pretty much anything and everything in my life : “oh my god, he didn’t “like” my Facebook picture he hates me what did I do to make him hate me oh my god I bet it was that one time two years ago where I said something and he’s still mad at me about it and is just too polite to say it hurt his feelings but obviously he’s still upset about it otherwise he would have liked this picture and now I guess I’ll just go kill myself because what good am I to anyone at this point?” I’m sure you’re laughing, but this is pretty much exactly what I think. This is not an over-exaggeration in the least. This is 100% Erin Thought (registered trademark).

Generally speaking, I think too goddamn much, I convince myself I am right about what I’m thinking about, which leads to anxiety. There’s a fine line between being worried about something for valid reasons and being worried about things because you thought about it and have convinced yourself it’s true. I tend to face plant over that line on the reg.

She asked me how I felt therapy was going, and I like to think it’s helpful. I mean, I don’t go visit Therapist once a week just because I want to hang out. She’s cool and all, and I’m sure she’s a hoot on a personal level, but I am going to get help because I was tired of feeling shitty. I know my brain isn’t right and I want help to try to correct behaviors and coping mechanisms and deal with grief and all that other happy crappy.

I did, however, mention that I do find it somewhat difficult at times because of this pesky talking problem I have, repeating the “I can tell you want to say something, but physically stop yourself from doing so” thing, and she nodded knowingly. I hate it when people do that. I like to think I’m some complex creature with an impenetrable stone and steel wall with razor wire on top built up around me that people are left befuddled by me, but I also don’t have a very good poker face, and I give myself away. Goddamn it!

I felt the need to elaborate on why it’s so fucking tricky to get me to open up and talk.

“Feeling vulnerable?” she asked.


I nodded, feeling tears start to form. I had to quickly take a drink of my lukewarm coffee to keep me from crying. After I regained my composure, I added this:

“I constantly think about what I want to say, but don’t say it because I’m afraid I’ll sound stupid or my thoughts don’t matter. When I was married, it was extremely difficult trying to talk to my ex-husband because he always made me feel like my thoughts were invalid. If a topic didn’t interest him, or wasn’t about something he was interested in, he’d ignore me or give curt one word replies. I just learned to not talk to him anymore.”

Sadly, this habit never went away, and also why whenever I do talk or text, I end up apologizing for “rambling” because again, I trained myself to assume everyone is like my ex-husband and is bored out of their skulls by me and wishes I would shut the fuck up already because no one cares, Erin. I want that to go away because whenever I am able to talk, I actually kind of enjoy it. It’s nice to not be ignored when I’m speaking, or being made to feel like what I have to say is inconsequential or small.

This shed some further light to Sally Psychologist (not her real name) and she asked if therapy was focused more on insight, as in trying to determine why I am the way I am, and I said yes. She asked if that was helpful for me. I said no because due to constant thinking, I’m fairly self-aware of why I do things, or at least I like to think so. She suggested ACT therapy, or “Acceptance and Commitment Therapy, as a unique empirically based psychological intervention that uses acceptance and mindfulness strategies, together with commitment and behavior change strategies, to increase psychological flexibility.”

In other words, take responsibility for why I am the way I am and instead of making myself feel like shit about it (you dumb bitch, why can’t you just open your goddamn mouth and speak?), acknowledge it (hey, you’re not talking again. How’s come?), and make a plan of attack to fix it (‘Member how you said it feels productive and positive to talk? Hey, do that shit). So simple, yet so fucking terrifying because of that motherfucking “vulnerability” word.

Oh, I’m also incredibly self-deprecating. Surprise!

Another major point she brought up is the addictive personality, which manifests itself in two ugly ways: smoking (duh) and drinking. She expressed concern for the drinking. She probably has valid reason to do so. I typically don’t drink during the week, with some exceptions. I save my booze for the weekend, and I make up for lost time. Full disclosure: I drink to get drunk. Past alcohol abuse and the fact I’m 70 pounds overweight means my tolerance has been built up, so it takes a lot of liquor to get me drunk, which far exceeds the normal, safe amount. I can’t drink one or two drinks and feel satisfied. I have to be that happy, chatty, word-slurry drunk.

But Erin, did you know alcohol is a depressant?

I do know! And I also know that drinking while on antidepressants is basically like taking a pill in my mouth and immediately spitting it out. It’s counterproductive. And yes, I make myself feel like shit the next day when I berate myself for drinking that much. She suggested either drastically cutting back on drinking, or abstinence from it. I have to say that I agree. With what method is yet to be decided, but I am willing to try anything.

Needless to say, I have some massively hard work ahead of me and it’s freaking me out. You mean to tell me I have to make myself communicate more and reduce my alcohol intake? *insert me flipping a table over here*

But…I want to do this stuff. I want to be able to talk without fear of being made fun of. I want to be able to wake up on a Saturday morning and not hate myself for the drinks I had the night before. I want this old dog to learn some new tricks instead of shrugging my shoulders in a “welp, that’s just the way it’s always gonna be!” way.

I am glad I did this assessment, as silly as it might seem to some. “You paid someone to tell you what you already knew?” Well…yeah, but sometimes it’s nice to have a much better understanding of what’s going on with my brain and hopefully be given the help and care I need to correct the more infuriating traits I have.

And there you have it.

As always, thank you for reading.


The Marijuanalogues

Clever title! And all I can see when I read it is “anal.”

Good Sunday evening to you all. I hope your weekend was lovely and the icy grips of reality that tomorrow is Monday doesn’t vex you too much. But hey! Short week! Thanksgiving! Celebrate mass genocide with gluttony! It’s the American Way! I’m a snarky so-and-so!

I don’t know why I decided to write on this topic, but I’m going to write on this topic and probably go off on some long-winded rant and get way off topic, like I do. I just want to write on my laptop since it’s been gone for two weeks due to repairs and I wanted to give the ol’ girl a spin to make sure she’s functioning properly.

And away I go!

Marijuana. Pot. Ganja. The Sticky Icky. Wacky Tobacky. Smokin’ a J. Whatever you call it, I want you to know that I hate it. I fucking detest pot to my very core. The skunky, acrid smell of it by the hooligans who sneak it in to concerts to heighten their music experience make shivers go down my spine.

I would be remiss and a massive hypocrite to omit the fact that I have smoke pot five times in my life, and honestly, I hated every single time. Why did I try it the other four times, then? Good question, and my feeble answer is peer pressure. No kidding. It isn’t just a thing made up by after-school specials.

Also, let me get this out of the way, as well: I also understand the hypocrisy I have towards it because I drink alcohol, a substance that also alters one’s mood/behavior/used as an emotional crutch/terrible method of coping.

I also think the stuff should be legalized. I’ve read many articles on its medicinal purposes, and my family and I actually tried to convince my father to try it when he was in his last stages of terminal cancer (he declined).

So what’s my big fucking deal with it? I thought you’d never ask!

My big fucking deal with pot is personal, and I know how well anecdotal evidence for something isn’t effective in topics such as this, but this is my post, so I’ll dote on the anec all I want.

I hate pot because my ex-husband was a chronic (no pun intended) pot smoker. When we were dating, I honestly had no idea he smoked until we were several months into our relationship, which looking back now, I’m like, “really, Erin? No idea?” He was the quintessential and stereotypical bluntman. His red eyes weren’t from allergies, honey. The small glass pipe he kept in the front pocket of his military-style jacket wasn’t for tobacco, sweetie. Him saying, “oh, I smoke every now and again” response when you asked him how often he did after you did find out wasn’t the truth, pumpkin.

He hid his smoking spectacularly well for a few years after we got married. We had been lawfully wedded for about four years before I found out he smoked regularly. I had been cleaning our apartment and one of our washcloths was in a drawer in a side table in the living room. It looked dirty, so I picked it up to toss it in the dirty laundry pile when the smell hit me. I took a bigger whiff and was almost knocked over by the stench. There was a lighter, but he smoked cigarettes on occasion, so that didn’t phase me, but what the good-god hell was this foul-smelling washcloth for?

He got home from work and I asked him about it. His face turned red and he stammered out a barely audible reply of “I blow smoke into it…”

“You what?”

“When I smoke. I blow into the washcloth so you can’t smell it.”

“You smoke in the house?!” I was incredulous at this point. And, because I was innocent and naive as fuck, I immediately thought the cops were going to burst through the front door and arrest us both: him for smoking pot, me for being an accomplice to it.

Turns out my darling husband never told me the truth about his pot smoking, or how often he did, or that he fucking smoked in our apartment. I also don’t remember being that upset about it or with him. I think my exact words were, “dude, you don’t have to hide it from me.” Wife of the Year, folks.

Another hindsight moment is he used to hang out regularly with a guy who smoked constantly. In fact, the first time I met the guy, he offered me a hit off of his bong after asking if I was “cool.” Again, being naive as fuck, and thinking he was asking about my character, not if I was okay with people getting high around me. I laughed and said, “yeah, I’m totally cool!” Oh, precious Erin.

Honestly, not realizing the full scope of how often my then-husband smoked, I didn’t raise too big of a fuss about it after I discovered the vile washcloth. Perhaps I should have.

A few years of our marriage went by and things changed between us for various reasons. He took to being away from home a lot more than he used to, sometimes not coming home until 3 or 4 a.m, or mid-morning the next day. This is where it was tricky being his wife: we only had one cell phone and more often than not, it got left at home with me. His friends’ numbers were in it, but I didn’t want to be the uncool, nagging wife who called his pals to find out where he was. Besides, I got used to being alone. We never really did much together anyway–I did all the grocery shopping because he hated it, I cleaned, did laundry, made us food…gosh, I really had it made, didn’t I? Boy howdy! What a terrific relationship!

I digress. Anyway, we just had separate lives. He did his thing, I did mine. When we split up and agreed to meet to discuss our future, if it was worth fighting for and working on or not, he said something to me that made zero sense at the time, but makes perfect sense now: “we’re too codependent.” What? How can that be? We literally are never together! How can we be dependent on each other? Again, I am a precious angel to pure for this world. Codependency is his relying on me to have stable, steady job so he could do what he wanted. I relied on having to take care of him, even though he wasn’t there. I always made sure he was fed, had clean clothes to wear, had cash with him at all times, etc.

We ended up separating in July 2010 for various reasons that we deemed not worth fixing. He moved out of the house we were renting and I stayed there, which again, goddamn fucking hindsight because his best friend lived next door to us, so he would be next door all the time, something I didn’t realize until whenever I would be outside with the dog and it would start freaking out by jumping on the chain link fence between the two properties. Again, sorry for getting off track.

Fast forward a few months after he moved out and I get a phone call from his older sister. He had been in a bicycle accident and was in the hospital due to his injuries. I freaked out. I didn’t know if I should go to the hospital or not. He’d been gone for three months. Was he my responsibility anymore? No, he wasn’t. But…I still cared about him, so I ended up going.

He had been riding his bike late the night before and was on one of the bike paths when he had a head-on collision with another bicyclist. My ex didn’t have any lights, nor was he wearing a helmet, so when he and the other guy crashed, he got thrown off his bike and landed face first on the pavement, busting his face up and giving himself a concussion. Oh, and he had pot on his person, so when the police and ambulance came to his aid, he also got a ticket for possession. Classic.

He had to spend two days in the hospital for observation after his concussion and since he had been under the influence of both pot and booze during the crash, he had to visit with a social worker before he was discharged home. I was there with him in his room when the guy came in to talk to J and I asked if he wanted me to leave or stick around. He asked me to stay. Okay.

I am both glad I stayed and also wish to the stars that I hadn’t. The social worker asked him about his pot use, how often he did it (a few times a day), and if he thought it had caused any issues with his relationships.


I about flew up off the uncomfortable chair I had been sitting on.

You dumb motherfucker. Really? Your daily pot use, several times a day, had no effect on your relationships? I could have killed him. I wanted to kill him. Killing him would have been so satisfying…illegal, but satisfying.

In that moment, I realized why we were getting divorced. The very reason why we were in our current state was almost a year prior, his hours at work got cut back. He’d send me a text around noon while I was at work, saying he was home for the day and he was going to play video games for a while, then head next door, or over to his other friend’s house, aka I’m going to smoke weed for the rest of the day. Our boiling point came the day where I had finally reached my limit and asked him what he was going to do about this job situation. I don’t think I was overly nagging or being a total cunt about it; I simply asked him, “are you going to look for another job? Maybe a part-time job? Or what about going back to school like you’ve always talked about? You have to do something, J. We can’t survive very well when your paycheck got cut in half.”

You’d have thought I asked him to murder his entire family for me based on his reaction to me, which was to lock himself in our bedroom for the rest of the day, that night, and parts of the next day. So…that’s a “no” then?

So, for me to hear him then tell this social worker that pot wasn’t an issue, it made me irate. It made me despondent that once again, he was choosing pot over me, like he had been for years. It made me feel worthless, that maybe I am such a truly awful wife and companion that not even my own husband can stand to be around me for longer than a few hours a day that he has to leave and smoke pot as an escape from his horrible home life and the wicked woman he unfortunately married.

So, when the topic of marijuana comes up, you’ll have to forgive me for having a Vietnam-esque flashback moment. But again, I don’t give a shit if anyone else smokes it. If you can handle it and still be a functioning, productive member of society, toke it up, brother and/or sister. If you want to fill your bed with nothing but pot leaves so you can sleep on your weed, by golly, knock yourself out. If you want to fashion a suit out of leaves, weave a pot hat, and drive a car made out of pot, more power to you, friend. If you want to craft a family out of pot and take pictures of your pot family to hang over your mantel made of pot, be my guest.

Back in September of this year, Facebook reminded me that on September 12, 2012 we made our divorce official. I hadn’t heard from him in over two years, but that memory made me think about him. I don’t do the FB stalking thing. I had once after we divorced and found his profile, took one look and went “okay, nope,” and never searched for him again, but that day back in September, I felt myself be very curious as to his whereabouts. I ended up sending a message to his older sister asking how he was doing instead. I was hoping to hear great news from her, that he had gotten his life together, had gone back to school and was working as a graphic designer somewhere; that he had met someone and they were incredibly happy together, maybe engaged or even married with a kid on the way or something. I wanted to hear from her that he was thriving, that he had ditched his old ways and was such a different person.

Unfortunately, I didn’t get that news. She actually hadn’t heard from him in quite some time herself. He ignores her emails, phone calls, text, courier pigeons, and smoke signals. She thinks he still works at the same place he has for the last almost 10 years, but isn’t sure. She doesn’t know where he lives, but last she knew, he had an apartment in a crummy part of town. He doesn’t contact his family, which breaks my heart for them and for him.

I truly hoped he realized what he has been doing isn’t good for him. Part of me wants to see if he still uses his old email address and write him a message, but I am not going to. It’s been six years since we split, four since it was official. He was a part of my life for ten years and I admit it’s been rough letting that go at times because there are still some ill effects of our relationship on me (obvs.), but I won’t let myself do that. Like I said, I very rarely think about him anymore, just the random “I wonder if he’s dead” thoughts.

So, you’ll have to forgive me whenever the topic of marijuana comes up and my muscles tense and my jaw clenches shut. I realize some people can be productive and not let their vices destroy their lives, but I’ve witnessed first-hand that sometimes, they can.

Thanks for letting me get this off my chest. I appreciate it. Okay bye!


My Top 50 List is Better Than Rolling Stone’s Top 50 List.

Yesterday afternoon, I read an article posted by Rob Sheffield of Rolling Stone titled “50 Best Songs of the Nineties.” 

In a word, it’s garbage…and I’m not talking about the Shirley Manson fronted band, either. Although, I am shocked to see the band listed at #18.

I don’t know what Sheffield was/was not smoking while coming up with this list, and I know it’s silly to get into a huff over such things because everyone is entitled to their opinions, except when they’re so amazingly wrong, it probably cut a whole in the time/space continuum and it’s all Rob Sheffield’s fault. If we all die in some sort of alien siege, you can kindly write your opinion letters to Rolling Stone’s editorial staff.

Why will my list be better than Rob’s? Because, it just will be.

Okay, probably not, but the man left out some glaringly obvious artists in favor of claiming Blackstreet with their song “No Diggity” is fit to deserve the #2 song of the ’90s. I was fifteen years old in 1996 when this song came out and recall fondly dancing awkwardly at my high school homecoming dance. I had on a pair of brown corduroy shorts, a denim shirt, and matching brown corduroy vest, and I swear I could hear the sound of the fabric swooshing over the music of Blackstreet. No diggity, no doubt.

I generally like to think the nineties were my decade, even though I was 10 years old at the start. Lucky for me, I have a seven years older brother, so through him, I unknowingly got exposed to some of the greatest music of that decade, or any decade. Some music, I would like to add, that Mr. Sheffield omitted for whatever reason. I’ve read through his list a few times now, and every time, I shake my damn head at who got left out and who got put on, and at his apparent boner for ’90s rap/hip hop.

Here I go; I’ll share his picks in bold text, and then my own. Okay!

50. Fuzzy, “Flashlight”. I have never heard this song before, I admit, so that in and of itself is reason for dismissal and shame upon the House Sheffield. I don’t care that in his article, he includes YouTube videos to watch. I will not do what Rob Sheffield tells me. I’m sure it’s one of those songs that I’ll recognize if I heard it, but it’s doubtful. My pick for #50 is “Push th’ Little Daisies” by Ween. I won’t go into a long reason why. It’s 50 because I want it to be.

49. Britney Spears, “Sometimes”. Rob flexing his edgy, alternative muscle here by not giving #49 to “Baby One More Time.” Amateur. Not picking that song is like saying you prefer The GoBots to Transformers, just to seem cool. My pick is what his should have been. You couldn’t turn the radio on in 1999 and not have this song in your face. And who’d have thunk that the pig-tailed, schoolgirl skirt wearing moppet from the video would have a major meltdown in 2007 and shave her head? I sure didn’t.

48. The Offspring, “Self Esteem”. I have no beef with this choice. I like this song. Carry on.

47. Selena, “Fotos y Recuerdos”. Call me an asshole, but I think the only reason he added this was to tip his hat to the tragically murdered singer. I’m going to counter his pick with Aaliyah’s “Are You That Somebody.” It’s been about 20 years, and I can still hear that baby cooing in the background. This song is actually listed further up Rob’s own, but I don’t think it deserves to be ranked that high. Ass. Hole.

46. Silver Jews, “Random Rules”. Again, never heard it. I think Rob is defeating the purpose of a Best Of list if he’s naming shit I haven’t heard of. I’m not saying my musical interests span a wide range, but come on, man. Or maybe I really am being an asshole. Whatever the case, I shun this and instead pick “She Don’t Use Jelly” by The Flaming Lips. I liked to sing that song at karaoke because inevitably, I’d hear a “fuck yeah!” from some enthusiast who had forgotten about this ditty. You’re welcome.

45. Lil Kim with Lil Cease, “Crush On You”. I’m going to be honest here. The only thing I remember of Lil Kim is when she wore that seashell pasty over her boob at the MTV Music Awards. I’ve never been a fan of this kind of music, save the occasional songs, such as my pick: Missy Elliott’s “The Rain (Supa Dupa Fly)”. It was supa! And dupa! And fly!

44. Stereolab, “Cybele’s Reverie”. Nope. How about “Superstar” by Sonic Youth. Okay.

43. Supergrass, “Alright”. Oddly enough, I respect this choice, but because this is my list, I’ll also pick Supergrass, but the song “Pumping On Your Stereo.” Have you ever seen this video? It’s entertaining.

42. Ace of Base, “The Sign”. Confession: the summer of 1994, all I did while home alone was listen to this CD on repeat while I played with my barbies. I even based a barbie story line off of “All That She Wants.” I was a weird kid. This song stays, even though I know its appearance outraged some folks. Settle down.

41. Sophie B. Hawkins “Damn I Wish I Was Your Lover”. Good pick, Rob.

40. Big Pun featuring Joe, “Still Not A Player”. Two hip hop songs in the first 10. What’s up with that, Rob? Do me a favor and google “Rob Sheffield,” then giggle to yourself as you picture this guy bobbing his head to some phat beats, maybe throwing a hand or two up in the air like he doesn’t care. Perhaps a roof shall be raised. Who knows? But a big fat “NO” to this song. How about–and hear me out–“Leader of Men” by Nickelback? I know, we’ve all been taught to hate these Canadians, but honestly? This song is decent. This was pre-douche Chad Kroeger. This was pre-Avril Lavigne. This was a simpler time when we (okay, *I*) was captivated by this band. No, YOU shut up!

39. Sebadoh, “Brand New Love”. Pass. “Set Adrift on Memory Bliss” by PM Dawn. Sold!

38. Geto Boys, “Mind Playing Tricks On Me”.  This is like, the 3rd song I’ve never heard. These are Sheffield’s actual words from the article: “The scariest gangsta tale ever…” You know he calls his pals “gangsta” or “playa.” I would like to replace this with “Bitches Ain’t Shit” by Dr. Dre.

37. New Radicals, “You Get What You Give”. I remember singing along to this song and feeling extra naughty when the line “we’ll kick their asses!” was sang. Oh goodness! I knew this song was junk because my dad liked it. “Right Here Right Now” by Jesus Jones is much better.

36. Portishead, “Glory Box”. Eh. Not my favorite Portishead song, but that’s okay. You can stay.

35. Sheryl Crow, “If It Makes You Happy”. Ah, Sheryl Crow. I’m actually rather impressed he picked this song and not “All I Wanna Do.” My suggestion would have either been this song or “Home,” which is off the amazing self-titled album from 1996.

34. En Vogue, “Don’t Let Go (Love)”. En Vouge’s cool. This one may stay.

33. Helium, “XXX”. I really should take a listen to songs I don’t recognize offhand because I might actually know them, but I’m not going to because I want to stick to The Man Sheffield. First, I have to admit I’m not as “in the know” with female artists. Call me a terrible feminist or what have you, but I just like more male artists. Having said that, I’m giving my #33 spot to Oleander with their song “I Walk Alone.” I love that goddamn song. It’s an anthem of sorts, I guess. Helium. Pshaw, Rob. PSHAW.

32. Foxy Brown with Jay Z, “I’ll Be”. Ixnay on the Oxy-Fay Rown-Bay. I choose “The Distance” by Cake. I’ve always loved this dude and his monotone talking throughout the songs.

31. Underworld, “Born Slippy Nuxx”. Props to the song from Trainspotting. I pick not this song, but The Brian Setzer Orchestra and “Zoot Suit Riot.” Again, mainly for nostalgic reasons; my friend Mandi and I would “swing dance” to it. Oh, how cool we thought we were.

30. Sir Mix-A-Lot, “Baby Got Back”. I didn’t have an issue to this song until I read what Rob wrote about it: “Butt of course.” I don’t appreciate that terrible pun, sir, which is why I’m substituting Tone Loc with “Wild Thing.” I can’t be certain, but I think this song is about sex!

29. Fiona Apple, “Paper Bag”. I like Ms. Apple. You best believe I sang my little heart out to Criminal on many occasions, and still do. I just don’t much care for Sheffield picking more obscure titles as compared to the most widely known singles. Look at me! I’m Rob Sheffield and I know songs! Cool story, Rob. Shut up.

28. Weezer, “Pink Triangle”. Who among us owns “Pinkerton”? Not many, I bet (I have one song from that album on my iPod, and that’s “El Scorcho.”) Who among us owns “The Blue Album”? Dude, like, way more people that Pinkerton, I guaran-goddamn-tee it. Why? Because of goddamn Undone- The Sweater Song. Because of goddamn Buddy Holly. Because of goddamn My Name is Jonas. Because of goddamn Say It Ain’t So. Because of goddamn Only In Dreams, a song I actually really like. Pink Triangle? Get out of my face with Pink Triangle, you putz.

27. Daft Punk, “Around The World”. I’m a fan of Daft Punk. I remember when this song came out and I was the only person in my small group of friends who liked it. Yes, it’s monotonous with repeating “around the world” throughout the entire song, but it’s catchy as shit. I’m not mad at his choice here.

26. Natalie Imbruglia, “Torn”. I don’t mind this pick. You may stay.

25. Harvey Danger, “Flagpole Sitta”. Here’s a long story that I’m kind of concerned I remember, but go with it: the year was 1998. My high school marching band had just got done performing in two parades that day, and because we were small town kids in the “big city,” we usually got to pal around the mall afterwards. We were in Hastings, NE at the Imperial Mall. I was thrilled because they had a Sam Goody music store. I specifically remember asking my friend Corey, “should I buy Harvey Danger, or Rammstein?” Honestly, I was scared to buy the Rammstein CD because it was unlike any other music I had in my collection and I was just adorable back then, so I chose Harvey Danger. I love that CD, and I actually still listen to it regularly nearly 20 years later. The song “Problems and Bigger Ones” is solid. Take a listen. So anyway, I guess my point is this song is fine.

24. Aaliyah, “Are You That Somebody”. Rob put her here. I put her at #47. My pick is “Volcano Girls” by Veruca Salt. Those gals are fucking amazing musicians and can shred. Plus, I like the contrast between the heavy guitars and Nina Gordon’s innocent sounding voice. Warm us up and watch us blow, indeed.

23. Oasis, “Wonderwall”. Oh, Jesus wept. There is something you should know, and that is I adored “What’s The Story Morning Glory” a tremendous amount back in my youth. I loved it. Champagne Supernover? Come on! However. I have grown and matured and find both Liam and Noel Gallagher to be the biggest fucking blowhards in all of musicdom, so they  and this song can get fucked. Let’s go with “Got You Were I Want You” by The Flys. That’s much more deserving than goddamn Oasis.

22. Mobb Deep, “Shook Ones, Part II”. No. “Sunburn” by Fuel.

21. Smashing Pumpkins, “1979”. Again, I admit I was a SP fan. I was also a dumb kid and the fact Billy Corgan insists upon being called “William” now irritates me. Move aside, 1979, and make way for Mr. Big, “Be With You.” Goddamn it, Rob.

Okay, this is getting serious now. The top 20 songs of the nineties, as interpreted by me. Shit will really get real when I hit the top 1o. Buckle up, kids.

20. Beck, “Loser”. Yes, Rob. Yes. Beck is a fantastic artist and I love the squirrely fucker. Few artists can get away with developing their sound over the years without people flipping out about it (Radiohead comes to mind here). He has gone from talking about getting crazy with Cheez Wiz in Odelay to some of the most gorgeous, melodic, gut-ripping songs in Sea Change and Morning Phase. Beck is truly a gift, and I’m glad Rob realized that, as well.

19. Whitney Houston featuring Faith Evans and Kelly Price, “Heartbreak Hotel”. Egads. “Prayer for the Dying” by Seal.

18. Garbage, “Queer”. Shirley Manson will eat you alive. This one can stay.

17. Beastie Boys, “Sure Shot”. Nothing to see here; move along.

16. Sleater-Kinney, “Get Up.” Okay.

15. Outkast, “Rosa Parks.” Fine.

14. R.E.M. “Nightswimming”. Yep.

13. Ol’ Dirty Bastard, “Brooklyn Zoo”. Whew. Finally a song I disagree on. I was getting nervous! Former Wu Tang Clan’s ODB (or Big Baby Jesus or Dirt McGirt, if you prefer) is a fine enough choice, but not on this list, pal! Alice In Chains, “No Excuses.” I love AIC. I love the near-perfect harmonies of the late Layne Staley and Jerry Cantrell. I love their depressing lyrics. I just love them, period.

12. The Breeders, “Cannonball”. It’s such a nineties song, but I never liked it, so buh-bye. “Break It Down Again” by Tears for Fears.

11. Hole, “Doll Parts”. The former Mrs. Kurt Cobain is tricky. While I did have a thing for Hole’s album “Celebrity Skin,” I cannot let this song be so highly ranked. If this were a top 100 list, sure, but it isn’t, so you must vacate the premises, Courtney. I nominate “Possum Kingdom” by Toadies.

Okay. Top 10 time. Ready? Let’s go!

10. TLC, “No Scrubs”. I realize most of my picks are of the alternative genre, and I’m generally okay with that, but I will give credit to pop songs when credit is due. However, I will remove TLC from the list and replace them with Mariah Carey. Literally any Mariah Carey song from the ’90s, too. The woman has incredible range to her voice and is truly talented in that regard. She’s a little cuckooburra these days, but who among us isn’t?

9. Liz Phair, “Fuck and Run”. Not so fast, Rob. Tori Amos and “Crucify.”

8. Pulp, “Common People”. How about no. How about “Enjoy the Silence” by Depeche Mode. Much better.

7. Miss Misdemeanor Elliott, “The Rain (Supa Dupa Fly)”. I ranked this song much lower so that I could present “Come Undone” by Duran Duran. A band so nice, they named themselves twice. Also, they put on one hell of a live show and Simon Le Bon makes me feel funny things in my swimsuit area now he’s matured to a silver fox, but that’s a moot point. Ahem.

6. Pavement, “Gold Soundz”. I don’t wanna. “Big Me” by the Foo Fighters. Any parody of a Mentos commercial as a music video wins in my book.


5. Dr. Dre and Snoop Dogg, “Nuthin’ but a G Thang”. Sigh. I’m torn, really I am…but not torn enough to remove their #5 crown and bestow it upon someone else’s head. “More Than Words” by Extreme. This song is still one of my all-time favorites, and the album which is came is one of the best ever. Sorry, Dre and Snoop. I hope you understand.

4. Bikini Kill, “Rebel Girl”. I’m going to be honest here. Ever since I hit 20 on the list, I’ve just wanted to name all Pearl Jam and Radiohead songs and fuck trying to include a wide variety, but I didn’t. So my #4 pick is Alanis Morissette and I’m having trouble picking a song. Jagged Little Pill is filthy with good picks, but my heart has decided to go with “Uninvited.” Goddamn, that song, I swear. Alanis has chops, for sure.

3. Notorious BIG with Mase and Puff Daddy, “Mo Money Mo Problems”. You’re killing me, Smalls. I’m also growing increasingly oddly fascinated by Rob Sheffield’s love of rap/hip hop. It’s just so wild to me. Anyway, how about “One” by U2? So glad you agree! Man, seriously, to not include one of the biggest bands ever in a list like this? I don’t care how obscure you try to be, you have to have U2 on the list, even if their songs don’t relate to the genre. Top 50 classical pieces? Beethoven, Back, Wagner, Tchaikovsky, and U2. That’s just the way these things work, I’m sorry.

2. Blackstreet, “No Diggity”. I want to know what was going on in Rob’s head when he decided that this song should be #2. I want to know his though process and why he feels so strongly about this song needing to be #2. I honest to goodness laughed out loud when I read this on his post. It’s so…I don’t know what. I’m convinced he got paid some sort of kickback for including this band from the band themselves. “hey, yo, Rob. Put us on your list and we’ll compensate you handsomely.” I don’t get it. I haven’t understood many of his picks, but this one truly baffles me. I am baffled. But, I’m baffled by my own choice here; not because I don’t think it’s good, because it sure is, but because I can’t decide if it should be no. 1 or no. 2. When it comes down to it, it’s my list, so here we go: “Karma Police” by Radiohead. See, I had to put Radiohead on here. I had to. It isn’t a nineties list without them, and if you notice, Rob “I’m an Idiot” Sheffield glaringly omitted them from the list, as well as the band claiming number one from me.

1. Nirvana, “Smells Like Teen Spirit”. Why, god, why. Why. Nirvana? Here’s what Rob had to say: “The song that blew up the world. The song that defied all rules about how music worked and how much raw emotion you can cram into four chords and a crummy guitar solo. The song that kicked the future in the teeth. The song that shattered all your complacency about settling for the politics of the inevitable. ‘Smells Like Teen Spirit’ was Kurt Cobain’s challenge to the audience–and after all these years, the challenge still stands.” Okay, here’s another long story that no one but me cares about, but again, my list, my rules. I hate Nirvana. I, again, was a fan in my youth. I recall vividly being 10 years old and sitting in the passenger seat, my mom in the backseat, and my older brother driving. This was A Big Deal. My brother, at the age of 17, had given me permission to sit next to him in the front. I took this gift very seriously and paid attention to everything he did and what music he chose to listen to. The radio was playing this song that night, and I knew they had to be something special if my brother listened. I get it. Nirvana helped pave the way for grunge music, have unwashed hair, and raid your dad’s closet for flannel shirts. I get it. But here’s my beef with this: Kurt Cobain killed himself over 20 goddamn years ago, and we still treat that day like a fucking holiday. We glorify his mental illness. Sure he was talented, even I admit his tunes and riffs were catchy, but come on, man. And he hated the other bands who dared also consider themselves grunge. During a tumultuous time in the world (Desert Storm), we didn’t need this punk being a jackass, you know? I have no love for Kurt Cobain, nor do I wish to keep perpetuating everyone’s sick obsession with him. And riddle me this: why isn’t Layne Staley of Alice In Chains treated the same way? Staley killed himself, too, about 8 years after Kurt, on the same day. Where’s his being harolded as a pioneer and visionary? It’s fucked up. Fuck Kurt Cobain.

Well, after that little rant, here’s my pick and it’s fitting because this band is one that Cobain trash talked, so it gives me a sense of pleasure picking Pearl Jam with the number one song in the ’90s, and that is “Alive” from their first album, Ten. Suck on that, Sheffield.

I would like to acknowledge my hatred for Kurt Cobain is weird, because it is. But I also hate Ernest Hemingway for no discernable reason other than I read a book of his once and didn’t like it, so now I have a personal vendetta against him. I’m special like that.

And there it is, folks. My list. I know I missed some bands (Stone Temple Pilots, Soundgarden…so many bands I skipped…), and I’m sorry, but seriously, if I were to make my own top 50 list, it’d be predominantly alternative music, so I thought I’d spice it up a bit.

This was fun to write and to blast Sheffield in his dumb face.

As always, thanks for reading.


The Dead Father

What a cheery title!

I haven’t written in a few weeks, mainly because I’ve been busy, mostly because I didn’t want to put a final chapter to my story.

My dad died May 4 at 12:20am. I don’t really believe it still. I’ve caught myself trying to text him a few times, or think to myself as I’m driving one of his vehicles, “Dad’s going to be furious that I’ve been smoking in this thing.”

I miss him. I miss being annoyed by him because let me tell you what: that man irritated the shit out of me regularly. We have very similar personalities and Jesus Christ, the passive aggressiveness we threw at each other was incredible. Man o’ Friday*.

*Dad said that all the time. I have no idea where he picked it up. Once, I counted he said that phrase 10 times in an hour long conversation. It was always, “Man o’ Friday, honey! You should have seen _____ !” That’s one affectation I think I’ll take a pass on.

It’s been harder than I thought it would be not having him around anymore, but in the same breath and I am an awful, horrible, terrible person for saying this, but I’m also glad he’s gone. The last few months, weeks, days, and hours before his death were something I hope I never have to go through again.

He did not have a good death. He suffered until the end despite our best efforts to help him. He was in such intense pain and no amount of morphine helped him. He got agitated and combative towards us. The old fuck spit medication in my face. Twice. I have never slapped another person before, and I came alarmingly close when he did that to me. Instead, I regrettably poked him hard in the sternum with my index finger and through gritted teeth, snarled, “Dan Valentine, you stubborn shit!” Not my finest moment, but what can I do about it now?

I’m trying to keep myself preoccupied with things. I can’t tell you what things exactly, but things. I can say for certain it isn’t cleaning my living area. I had good intentions to clean the bathroom today and unpack my bags from when I was in Deshler…three weeks ago…but did any of this get done? Nope. I’m in bed, snuggling a pile a shit on the bed.

But that brings me to my next thought, and a bit of a tangent, so please excuse me: I’m sure most of you are familiar with the Kübler Ross model of grief–denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance. We pretend it didn’t happen. We’re pissed the fuck off it happened. We’d give anything to make it not have happened. We’re inconsolable it happened. Finally, we get that it happened. The end. Easy peasy lemon squeezy.

I have to say, I’m totally fucking NAILING the depression stage. Like, I’m excelling at it, really. If depression was an Olympic sport, by golly, I’d have a gold medal!

I’ve done some bargaining, as well; not much, but some. Some could argue my almost texting/thinking PD would be irate if I brought back his vehicle to him stinking to holy hell of stale cigarette smoke is denial, and I wouldn’t put up much of a fight. I’ve flirted with acceptance a time or two, but it didn’t amount to much. Acceptance won’t text me back and is ignoring my phone calls.

The stage I don’t know if I’ll have is anger, and here’s what I’m laying here thinking about: I have nothing to be angry at. I mean, why would I be mad at Dad? It’s not his fault he got cancer and died. We didn’t always have the best relationship, and I do believe I screamed at my father once that I fucking hated him, but I’m not mad at that now. (Or maybe I am…? My self-analysis is a bit slow these days.)

But here’s my original thought: most people who get angry, get angry at god. You know, “why did god let this happen?!” I don’t believe in god, so…now what? Can I skip this stage? Test out of it, maybe? Write a letter to a congressman or something? Click the box at the end that requests I opt out of it like being added to an email list? I don’t know! Anyway, just a thing that rambled in my head.

I did thank my dad for dying, as odd as that seems. Like I mentioned, the days and hours leading up to the end were hellacious. Between me, my brother, sister-in-law, and nephew, the four of us got a collective 8 hours of sleep in 3 days. I wish that was an exaggeration. It is not. Dad ended up needing morphine every hour to keep him somewhat “calm,” so we took shifts during the night to stay up with him. When he finally died, I was holding his hand and witnessed his last two breaths, and immediately said, “oh, thank you, thank you, thank you!” He needed to go and he stopped being such a fucking stubborn old sonuvabitch and finally left. I’ve never been so relieved in my life. Plus, he finally goddamned listened to me for a change! “Daddy, it’s okay to go. You need to go now.” And he did! By golly, he took my advice!

For the record, as humorous as I’m trying to be writing this, please know I’m bawling like a child. I don’t share that to gain sympathy, but rather to reaffirm that I’m not being a heartless jokester and cracking jokes because I’m devoid of any emotion. On the contrary. I’m rather shocked I am crying this hard because I was sure I had cried myself dry. Guess not! Yay!

I’d like to take a moment to thank everyone who has been there for me. I’m lucky to have you all. Thank you for food and checking in and showing up to the funeral and helping me clean records. My love for you can’t be measured.

On that note, I will stop here.

You know my closing line by now, but in case you forgot: as always, thank you for reading.


There’s A Shower Chair In My Dad’s Kitchen Because He’s A Massive Dork.

Buenas dias, señors y señoritas. ¿Qué tal? ¿Bien, y tú? Jajajaja!

Hey! Guess where I am! Deshler! Isn’t that new and different! Wow! What fun!

Full disclosure: I’m getting tired of coming down here. That’s awful of me to say, but good golly. I know I should enjoy the time here because chances are very likely I’ll probably never come back, save special circumstances, like high school reunions, but right now, I’m getting burned out on D Town. It is nice sitting on Dad’s front porch and as he likes to say, “watch the world go by.” I’m currently doing just that. I have coffee and being a bit of a dork and have my car stereo on so I can listen to music. I need to turn the bass down, though; it’s a little hot. Will I? Probably not because I am lazy and can’t be buggered to walk the 20 feet to my car.

Well, I got interrupted in writing by Dad.

He was at the farm yesterday when I got to Deshler and he spent the night out there, which got my worry wort tendency to kick in. I know he loves it out there, but it’s gotten to the point where I fret about him being out there, especially when he sleeps. I had decided that if he wasn’t back in town by 10am, that I was going to go out there to check to make sure he was still alive. Morbid? Yes, but warranted. As I  wrote earlier, I was sitting on the porch and he drove up around 8:15. I went inside to say hello and he could barely make it up the backdoor stairs. He said he was in pain again, so I gave him some morphine and put him to bed.

This shit is hard. It’s heart wrenching to see your father hunched over in pain and I can tell when it’s bad for him because his voice changes. Plus, he doesn’t exactly talk gibberish, but he just says odd things. I was getting him situated in bed and he was thanking me for helping him, and he suddenly started singing “rubber ducky, you’re the one…” Then he said, “have I mentioned I’ve been hallucinating lately?” and his dreams are super bizarre. Cool, Dad. That’s not concerning at all.

Another difficult thing is the emotional rollercoaster. One day, he’ll sound great and be feeling well, and we all think he was premature in his assessment that he has a few weeks left. We’re like, “fuck yeah! He may have cancer, but cancer is having him yet!” Then, there’s days like today when he’s in pain, weak, and starts singing Sesame Street songs and I am scared to death to leave to go back to Lincoln because I’m just certain that it’ll be the last time I see him and I start thinking about how I will need to go buy clothes to wear to the funeral. Talk about going from zero to sixty in a few seconds. It’s exhausting.

I also have the feelings of “I’ll be so glad when this is over,” which breaks my own heart because that means when it’s over, he won’t be here. That’s so hard to reconcile. It’s not like when it’s over, he’s going to wake up one morning and be free of cancer and live another 20 years. Not to make light of the situation, but it’ll be game over, man. Game over.

I really want to start drinking right now. Healthy, no? Good coping skills, E. They–and I don’t know exactly who “they” are–never should have introduced me to alcohol. Or I should be smart enough not going to the bottle to help deal with this shit, but I never claimed to be smart.

Oh, I did walk to my car to turn the bass down finally. Why I’m not listening to the music in my phone is beyond me, but whatever.

I really wish I was in Lincoln helping with the highway trash cleanup that my atheist group is doing today. That sounds way more fun than what I’m doing now. Oh well. Next time.

I’m sorry I keep writing about this crap, too. But I am my father’s child and would rather write about this than talk to anyone. Plus, in my mind, I don’t want to talk about it because how many of you have dealt with this exact situation? I’d only make you uncomfortable and feel awkward that you can’t offer words of wisdom, so if I write about it, I’m helping us both out: I can get my mind clear and hopefully, my tales will be useful to anyone who has the misfortune of having to go through this at some point with your own parents. Hopefully not, because I wouldn’t wish this experience on anyone. I guess just treat these posts as the train wreck you can’t look away from.

In closing, a giant “FUCK YOU” to cancer. I was rubbing Dad’s back earlier and wondered if I could feel it under his skin, and then I wished I was like John Coffey in “The Green Mile” and could somehow remove it from him. That’d be awesome.

I’m rambling now, so I’ll stop.

As always, thanks for reading.

April 10, 2016

Good morning from Deshler, Nebraska 68340.

It’s been a wild last 2 days, lemme tell you what. Wild! If there’s one thing I can say about my dad is that he always keeps us on our toes, the rascal.

My brother Nate and nephew Shane drove from Idaho on Tuesday and got down to Deshler late Tuesday night due to the news Dad dropped on us last weekend about his anticipated remaining days. Luckily, Dad was put on a steroid and muscle relaxant to help aid in the pain medications he takes and that seemed to give the old man some pep in his step. The men were able to go out to the farm, shoot some guns, and help Dad move some stuff down in the basement.

Dad was feeling so well, in fact, he was able to go out to his cabin at the farm and sleep up in the loft, which blows my damn mind because well, it just does. He’s been in a constant state of pain the last few weeks, so for him to have the gumption to go out there is fantastic.

Early Friday morning, though, his fun came to a bit of an abrupt end and he drove back to town because he was in such severe pain.

Now, me being me, all last week knowing the conversation I had with Dad, I kept expecting my brother to call me some morning and tell me Dad was gone. I know, I know…I am a pro at worrying about things like that, but you can’t blame me. I was feeling a bit cocky by Friday and had plans to join the boys that night after I got off work and have a good old time with the Hoffmeyer Men.

Friday morning as I’m driving to work, my phone rings. It’s my brother. My stomach dropped into my shoes.

Nate called to tell me about Dad. Dad had called hospice around 3:30 Friday morning to see what he can do and he has a small white box in his fridge that has liquid morphine and some other medications that are used towards the end of things for terminal patients–there’s lorazepam, some anti-nausea stuff, and some other jazz. The nurse told my dad to take some morphine. The first dose didn’t help, so Nate called back and they told him to give him some more. Still nothing, but it was enough to knock the guy out, so when Nate called me, Dad was sleeping and the hospice nurse was on her way over to see Dad.

My brother’s a pretty stoic guy and tries not to let things rattle him, but when we were talking, he was definitely shaken up by what was going on, and rightly so. I wish he hadn’t had to go through that with Dad, but it happened and I’m so glad he was there. I asked if he needed me to come down to Deshler and he told me to stay put, but would call me if anything changed.

Two hours later, he calls and says I should get down to Deshler quick. The nurse had just left and gave Dad a lot more morphine. Like, a lot more. I left work unsure of what the rest of the day would hold, whether or not Dad was on his last legs. Needless to say, I might have been speeding on my drive down.

I got to Deshler about 90 minutes later and my brother and nephew are outside. Dad was obviously knocked out and snoring loudly when I went in to check on him.

On my way to Deshler, I called hospice and talked to the nurse and she told me that she thinks Dad just did far too much the last two days and it kicked his ass hard and now he was paying dearly for it. She said he was stable but put him on a schedule of morphine every 3 hours. I also had to ask her about how long she thought Dad had and if his guess of not seeing the beginning of May was accurate. She told me that when patients can feel the changes in their body, that they’re usually “spot on” abonight. Cool.

Dad got through the rest of Friday and then, yesterday morning, I had gotten up at 6am to give him his medication and he seemed better, and even told me he felt good and wanted to go out to the farm later as was our original plan for the day before the incident 24 hours earlier. I left and got coffee and donuts and when I got back, the old fart was up and sitting on the steps to the back door, a cup of coffee in his hands and I was like, “say whaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa?” This was definitely not the man I had seen a few hours previously. I was shocked, actually. And by god, the four of us went out to the farm yesterday afternoon and had ourselves a grand old time together. I shot a rifle and handgun! I know, right?!

We got back to town, grilled food, and watched freaking Star Wars last night. I have to say, that’s one of the best times I’ve had with my family in a while, and I think it did all of our hearts so much good. Yesterday was a great day.

Nate and Shane decided to go back to Idaho and left at about 3:30 this morning and I think Dad’s pretty worn out from our day because aside from the few minutes I woke him up to take his meds, he’s been sleeping.

His time is nearing the end, but I can’t express how happy I am he got to see his son and grandson before that comes. The next few weeks will be rough, but that’s to be expected.

And there you have it. I want to apologize for blowing up Facebook yesterday with all my pictures and posts. I got a little carried away, so thank you for humoring me. Also, thank you for allowing me to write about all this lately. It helps me tremendously to do so.

Much love,