I'm Back, Motherfuckers!

Yeah, I know, opening a post by implying that all of you good people are secretly doinking your own mothers is kind of an aggressive way to announce my return to the blogosphere, but after such a long absence I figure the first post I write is going to set the tone for everything that comes after, and I don't want anybody wandering in here thinking they're going to find the same old posts by the same old Gabe they got so comfortable with all those years ago. I am NOT the person who wrote those old posts. I am older, I have more scar tissue on both my body and my soul, and I have neither the time nor the inclination to tiptoe around the fragile sensibilities of the more conservative people I'm friends with on Facebook. No disrespect to you if you're one of them, but if the word fuck is too much for you to bear, please just block my posts from showing up in your feed. We can still be friends, but these posts are for people who are interested in what's going on in my head, and my head is a place where fuck is one of the kinder, gentler words getting bandied about on a minute-by-minute basis.

Okay, now that we've gotten that out of the way, I expect anyone still reading is cool with me just being me, for better or (maybe especially) for worse.

A QUICK RECAP OF THE PAST THREE AND A HALF YEARS:

- Year One -

Love!

No writing.

- Year Two -

More love!!!

I write two short stories, neither of which reaches the point of being fit for publication. Net result: No writing.

All my favorite celebrities die.

My mother dies.

Creditors assure me that, due to my extreme credit card debt, I have qualified for emergency assistance and, provided I do not miss any future payments, interest will stop accruing and my debts will be paid off in no more than five years. I breathe a sigh of relief and they immediately charge-off my account and sell the debt to a collection agency. FUCK!

My son has been accepted to Stanford!!!

The company I work for gets bought-out. The corporation that did the buying tell us to expect business as usual and that nothing will change, but I read between the lines and determine that there's a Texas-sized downsizing on the horizon. Corporate denies everything. Business as usual, they say. I refuse to be lulled into a false sense of security.

Trump wins the election.

At least next year can't get any worse.

- Year Three -

Trump takes office.

It gets worse.

Corporate informs us that our entire department is going to be outsourced to North Carolina, but they're not telling us when. We'll just have to wait and find out. I hate to say I told you so, but...

Romantic love cools and solidifies into platonic love.

I haven't written anything worth submitting for publication in years!%&@*!

False starts at new novels, all of which fizzle out after a few chapters. Net result: No writing.

Platonic love isn't enough. The love of my life and I break up the day before I drive my son to California to begin his first year at Stanford. It is mutual but nonetheless crushing. I don't think I believe in romantic love anymore.

Several attempts at dating with absolutely no positive results.

Turns out the breakup wasn't as mutual as I thought it was. I feel like a steaming sack of shit, and the worst part is that I can only blame myself.

I forget to pay my property taxes for an entire year! Yay!

Hanging in a professional and personal Limbo the like of which I have never experienced, I want to believe 2018 can't possibly get any worse, but I seem to recall having a similar thought before.

- And A Half -

I turn thirty-nine.

Notice arrives in the mail that a collection agency is suing me for my credit card debt. Panic ensues. Lawyers are consulted. I spend three weeks enduring sweaty terror-shits.

My boss calls me into the conference room and tells me that the hammer has finally fallen, that I will be out of a job by May 11th, maybe sooner (depending on how many people in my department up and quit between now and then).

With the impending end of my fifteen years of dedicated employment no longer just an amorphous doom cloud floating hazily in the future and my faith in the redemptive power of romantic love completely shattered, my fight-or-flight sense kicks into gear and I realize that if ever there was a moment to pull my head out of my ass and start pursuing my dreams seriously, this is it. In the words of Black Cougar Shock Unit (they're a band, I swear), I'm done fucking around.

What better way to stop fucking around than to update my blog?

Yes. Weep. A blog post as a life-affirming declaration of intent. This is the future, and the future is fucked.

~

And now you're all caught-up (or as caught-up as I care to get you)! Where does it go from here? Who knows. I have plans, but as Public Enemy once titled an album, Man Plans, God Laughs. I'll keep you updated. And this time, I might actually do it.

-GABE



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The No-Shave November Logs, Day 16: Dust Yourself Off And Try Again

Well, I don't know what part of the process did it, or if it was all of the parts working in congress, but the depression is gone. After talking about it with my friend Rob at our weekly writers' meeting and writing about it here, I put on my iPod and listened to OMC's album How Bizarre and The Best of Patti Smyth back-to-back.

But the real turning point was Pete Seeger. When his incredible live version of "We Shall Overcome" - probably the greatest protest song ever written - started playing, I had to stop what I was doing and just have a manly cry. By "manly cry" I mean, of course, that I sat there for two minutes breathing deeply and bravely holding back tears. Then, when he got to the part of the performance where he talks about the verse, "We are not afraid," I squinched-up my face for 1.5 seconds and allowed one tear to fall from each eye. Then I took a deep breath and felt much better. Sometimes you've just got to let your emotions flow like that.

Next time I get depressed - and believe me, it's only a matter of time - I'm going to try the exact same sequence of events. It might not work again, but what's the worst that could happen? "On The Run" and "I Should Be Laughing" rack up an extra play and you people have to endure another self-indulgent blog post. It could be worse.

I'd like to take a moment to thank my family, friends, and fans (I must have at least one of those who isn't already in one of the previous two categories, right?) for putting up with yesterday's whining. I'd especially like to thank those of you who have real problems to deal with for not tracking me down and slapping me silly. Some of you are in agonizing pain all day, every day, and here I am griping about existential ennui. Your forbearance is neither unnoticed nor unappreciated.

Until next whine!

DAILY NO-SHAVE NOVEMBER PIC:

I call this look, Just Reached Base Camp.


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The No-Shave November Logs, Day 15: Tell It Like It Is

I don't know whether it's passing the 10 year mark at work, getting such a swift rejection for Monica's Portrait (I totally called that one), or even something as ridiculous as an argument I had with my wife yesterday before work, but I'm really depressed today. In fact, the only reason I'm even bothering to write this is the miniscule possibility that writing about it will make me feel better. So far, it isn't working.

I've struggled with depression my whole life. I'm sure there was a time when I was 3 or 4 years-old when I didn't, but I don't have actual memories of things before I was 5, only scattered images that I can't put in any sort of order. Since then, it's been depression in increasingly regular rotation, and I have to say that it sucks just as much today as it did when I was in first grade.

It's not entirely bleak, I guess. I do take a sort of grotesque pride in being the most cynical person most people I'm acquainted with know. Still, the only reason I carry that dubious honor is because I have literally no hope. I don't believe things will ever get better. To put it another way, I have never understood the horror that most people seem to regard the concept of total oblivion with.

I believe in an afterlife. In fact - based on experiences I've had that I'm not going to share with you, because you wouldn't believe them if I did - I can't not believe in an afterlife, and there are times when that is the only thing keeping me from killing myself. Mind you, that's not because I'm afraid of going to Hell. Unlike many Christians, I don't believe God is either impotent or hateful. It's just that the idea of facing a life that will never end absolutely terrifies me.

I read a horror story once that took place in Hell, and in this particular version of Hell there stood a door which led to a total and ultimate end of existence. The main character wouldn't even consider running through it, because the idea of ceasing to exist was even more terrifying than eternity in Hell. I just couldn't relate. Personally, given the choice between that door and Heaven, I'd choose the door, because the idea of continuing to exist for eternity - in any form - is the most horrifying thing I can imagine.

Well, this whole sharing thing doesn't seem to be helping. Maybe it's a long-term solution, though. We'll see. Hope I didn't drag any of you down with me. If I did, just remember that I'm completely full of shit.

DAILY NO-SHAVE NOVEMBER PIC:

I call this look, Halfway There, I No Longer Care.


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