Writing Practice – 3/30/2019

How do I get rid of my hiccups?

Easy ways (easy as in historically don’t cost a lot) – hold your breath, drink a glass of water, have someone else scare you. Not only are they easy, they’re usually not effective.

Non-traditional ways – I could either eliminate the hiccups, or I could try to eliminate myself noticing them. So – maybe I cut out my eardrums. Then I don’t hear myself hiccuping, and it’s not a problem any more.

Maybe instead, I stop hiccuping every three or four seconds, and I train myself to just do this constantly. Breathe in – hiccup – breathe out – breathe in – hiccup – breathe out. Forever. Then I don’t “have the hiccups”, then I’m just a different person. And since I don’t have the hiccups anymore, it’s not a big deal.

Or, I could hypnotize myself not to notice them. “Hey, you’ve got the hiccups!” Really? I never noticed.

Those I would call “moderate” solutions. Now, for the hard ones.

Let’s go right to the source. the problem is something within my body, so to eliminate the hiccups I can download (upload?) my mind to a computer and eliminate the need for a physical body anyway. Some scientists predict that it’s like 20% likely that all of this is already a simulation anyway, so we’d just be accessing a process that’s already in place. Maybe not so difficult after all.

But probably my most extreme method, yet one much more practical than the computer, because it’s already available, is I should just cut out my vocal cords. One quick snip of my throat – I bet I could get a cheap, yet qualified, doctor to do that for me down in Cancun, or maybe over in Delhi. I have had experiences in both of those places that tell me, sure, they probably know what they’re doing. And at this cheap a price, it’s practically stealing!

So – what will it be? Option A – hold your breath? Option B – hypnosis? Or option C- drastic surgery?

Let’s see – I’m leaning towards option C, for a couple of reasons.

One, I know it will work. It’s kind of hard to hiccup, with this little mouth / throat flap spamming all over when you no longer have a flap. Impossible, really.

Second, it’s permanent. If I go the “hold my breath” route, what’s to stop my body from sabotaging me again next week? Or even in an hour or two?

Finally, I like how it’s an overkill situation. Don’t bring a knife to a gunfight, isn’t that the advice? Same thing applies here – go all out, make sure it happens, leave no witnesses, tell whatever story you want to afterwards.

Deal!

Extremely Bad Advice – Losing A Limb, Gaining A Life

Okay, I’m stealing this one from Reddit. Apparently these people don’t know I’m available, or they wouldn’t be wasting their time with piddling “it’ll get better, just wait” pablum.

Hi Reddit, So as the title says, my Step-Dad, whom I’m very close to, had an accident at home on the weekend. We have all been left quite traumatised by the events. He was cutting thru mortar to remove limestone blocks, and the blade got stuck and kicked back, into his lower arm.

It severed his artery and he was bleeding out. My mum was at home but couldn’t hear him yelling (very big house). He shoved his other fist into his wound and walked to their door. He couldn’t take his hand out to open door or bang on door, so he banged on it with his head. When that failed he walked down to the driveway because, as he explained, he was bleeding out and all he could think was he was going to die alone and didn’t say goodbye to anyone.

He lay on the driveway yelling for help and luckily a neighbour drove past and saw him. Other people came and got my mum. There was a nurse there too, thank God. Ambulance was called and my mum called me, screaming to get my step-sisters and I to him because he was losing too much blood. I was with 1 of my sisters at the time and 6 of our kids. The kids (between 5 and 10 years of age) saw the fallout of that, us crying and panicking etc. They seem to be ok.

He got to hospital where they gave him ketamine to knock him out. Surgery followed to reattach his arm and nerves etc and he is currently undergoing more surgery right now. They say he lost so much muscle, he may never regain feeling. He can move his fingers though. He is a very physical man, a builder by trade, and is always building and fixing things. This will destroy him. He is 63 years old and now needs years of rehab.

My mum and Step-Dad have enough savings to survive for a few years. My mum works too. It was his left arm affected and he is right-handed, small mercies. We are all deeply affected by nearly losing him. He does so much for everyone and the thought that he nearly died alone is awful. My mum has major guilt about not hearing him. I know we are blessed he is still with us, but the trauma in that moment is still lingering.

What can we do now to make his life/their lives easier?

**

Okay, sounds like a bad situation. First part of my answer is, don’t listen to my advice. It’s extremely bad. Nobody should listen to this advice. Got that, those of you reading at home? Don’t listen to this advice! Now that we’ve gotten that out of the way…

Second part, of three, is that you’re going to have to put some money out of your pocket for a few months. At least until your dad gets moderate use of his hand back. Let me explain.

Judging by your use of the word “mum” and misspelling of “neighbor” as “neighbour”, I conclude that you are located somewhere in England. This means your procedures and operations and therapy will be covered by the National Health Service. I have two thoughts on that.

One, you will get what you need, but not all of what you need. Oh, you’ll get the surgeries and the physical therapy and the emotional counseling and all that, but that’s only half the picture. My other mind tells me that since your father is now hideously deformed, much is going to change between him and your mum. Due to not only the physical change, but her feeling like she must be “delicate” with him while he recovers, and that she feels she must care for him during his convalescence, she will no longer find him sexually attractive. Instead, she will see him as a “project”, a work to be completed, and she will therefore pull away physically out of fear of hurting him, as well as due to the time constraints and the stress.

At the same time, he will begin to feel like less of a man, less of a provider, hell, less of a human being, because he can no longer do the things he had previously done. This will drain his libido and lead to a downward spiral in which he does not improve because he doesn’t see any benefit to it, and because his wife, your mum, is acting aloof and “strange” to him.

This cycle will continue to build, albeit beneath the surface, because nobody wants to admit their true feelings about the situation, until it blows up into a destructive case of anger and, paradoxically, depression, driving your mum into the arms of Trevor down the street, because at least he listens! When the truth comes out, the downfall continues: your step-dad feels even more humiliated, incompetent, impotent, deformed, and unworthy.

His depression deepens and eventually their split becomes permanent, and he’s on the dole while your mum and Trevor are snogging nightly, bemoaning the fact that if they’d just admitted their feelings years ago, they could be on the beaches in the south of France these days, taking it easy. Meanwhile your step-dad spirals downward into a whiskey-fueled haze combined with a fanatical obsession over Canadian Prime Minister Justin Trudeau’s neckties. Now, nobody wants that; but you can avoid it by the following actions, and here’s where the money comes in, because the NHS doesn’t cover “emotional support concubines”:

Once a week, you hire a hooker to hit on your step-dad. [You’re in England, so, small mercies, this isn’t so frowned upon as here in the U.S. Good for you guys.] Prepare her, and pay her to be ready for, giving your father a handjob, though encourage her to allow him to stop her whenever he wishes. This will make him feel attractive, make him feel worthy, and, if he goes through with it, give him the sexual satisfaction neither he nor your mum is prepared to provide during his recovery. He’s busy thinking about staying alive, not about getting off, and she’s thinking about keeping him alive, not about getting him off. But this way, he still feels like a man, and he has options: accept the hooker’s advances and get his rocks off (lessening the stress), or reject her and have a great story to tell your mum in order to solidify their relationship.

This will probably need to last about eighteen months. After that time, his therapy will be done, and they’ll have figured out their “new normal”, which will likely include some kind of cosplay, generally around the “Captain Hook” theme. They’ll be good to go, although you won’t want to ask them for any stories after their anniversary nights out on the town. Good news is you can stop the hooker. Or you can give her my number and pre-pay for a little long-distance “talk therapy”, if you get my drift. Wink, wink, nudge, nudge.

I mentioned that there were three parts to my answer. That was the second. The third is this, and while you may think that part 2 was bad, just wait.

I advise you to convince your step-dad to amputate his arm, preferably as quickly as possible. The physical and mental trauma and struggle he’ll have to go through over the next handful of years to overcome his disfigurement and disablement is just not going to be worth it. Prosthetics are fantastic these days! He’ll actually be vastly more functional in a dramatically shorter time frame if he replaces, rather than “saving”, his arm and rehab from there. The longer you wait, the harder it will be to pull the old switcheroo as he self-deludes more and more into the idea that he’ll be better off with half his original hand.

But, in reality, his “healing” will be a much, much longer process if he has to view daily reminders of how much he’s lost, and how insufficient his “recovery” will ever be.

Now, how do you convince him to do it? Well, you probably won’t. Which is where you’ll have to take matters into your own hand. Literally. Go back out to his driveway and find that angle-grinder or whatever it was, and finish the job. Use a torniquet (I bet that’s how you’d spell it) tied off at the elbow so he doesn’t bleed out, but just throw that leftover hunk to the stray dogs in the street and apply to the NHS for a prosthetic. The trauma will be over much quicker, and your step-dad will, in the end, thank you once he realizes you’ve actually shortened his grieving period and given him a far superior solution to having something that looks like, and is about as useful as, beef jerky dangling from his elbow.

Cheers!

I Believe…

Writing Practice 1/24/2019: I believe…

I believe in the kingdom come. I believe U2 was at its best in the eighties, before they got successful band syndrome. It’s okay, it happens to all of those people who get “successful”. They now have less reason to pursue their artistry and craft than they did when they were broke and absolutely needed to pursue it at all coasts, in order to eat. That kind of pressure that kind of process weeds out those who don’t believe in their message as much; it keeps them from getting complacent, until, eventually, there is so much abundance around them that thye forget the passions that drove them to and through those situations and spaces.

I believe that diamonds are not all girls’ best friends. Oh, sure. Sometimes they are an individual girl’s best friend, because they represent something larger in society, they represent wealth, and with wealth comes status, and with status comes privilege, and princessship, and servants to supply your every demand, and all that Jazz which, apparently, everyone wants.

I believe that their are footprints on the moon. Though that’s not much of a “believe” as an acceptance of fact. There really are footprints there, and pictures to prove it. I guess the belief is that I believe the pictures are not changed, faked, doctored in any way.

I believe that is the way of the world – that this, too, this process of free writing and rewriting and changing your mind halfway through is what gets us there. We are on a journey. The farthest journey of a thousand miles starts with a single step, is the old adage. But it doesn’t stop there. It continues. It continues as you move forward, keep going, second step, third, fourth, fifth, tenth, twentieth, thirtieth, and suddenly (well, not suddenly, gradually, we’re not wearing Seven League Boots here) you’ve gone a mile. And after a time, two.

The value comes in going mile five hundred and one, when you’re tired and cold, and bored, and staying someplace warm, with a soft bed and a fireplace and some good company to tell you jokes in the evening as you sit, communal, gathered around the fire and smoking a pipe and enjoying the atmosphere and the community and the “feel” of the place; if you, too, become successful in that moment you will forget your journey, you will stop and stay, you will just be there, you will not finish.

__You will not end well.

____You will not overcome.

So the win, the completion, the culmination of the thousand mile journey is tho the easy part of the first step. and it is not the easy part of the last ten, twenty, eighty-seven miles. You conquer that journey when you are in the middle, faced with a decision.

–Stay?

—-Or go?

How you answer determines your fate. Choose wisely. For each future has consequence.

Writing Practice 12/29/2018

Warning Labels…

We don’t have warning labels on the right things. We have one on our mattress – a sleeping thing, for gods’ sake! But whoever really felt screwed by their imitation mattress? I mean, really, if you can’t tell when you lie down that you’ve got a real or a fake one, some stupid piece of tag stuck to the corner isn’t going to do you a lot of good.

I need a warning label on more things. People, everyone needs more of a warning label. Like, the one on me about 5 years would have said, “Warning: Deprive this man of intimacy, affection, and recognition of the hard work he’s doing and the pressure he is under and he will snap. Futures include holes in walls, doors, and late night drives that only compound the feelings of guilt, not absolve them.”

Our genitals need warning labels. “Warning: improper use could lead to feelings of shame, inadequacy, loneliness, and frustration.

Warning: Proper use could lead to a lifetime of responsibility for another human being, as well as necessary interaction with that other human’s other parent for the corresponding time frame.”

Our schools need warning labels:

“Warning: inside you shall not necessarily learn skill to help you succeed at life. Instead, you are likely to learn how to follow rules, because the consequences for rule-breaking are inclusive of exclusion from society, shame, feelings of inadequacy and worthlessness. These feelings are wrong, but the are likely to come anyway.”

Our world needs a warning label:

“Warning – contents under pressure. This situation has been building for hundreds of millions of years. To release all that in one fell swoop of a couple of hundred years is pretty stupid, don’t you think? It mean, who knows what could happen? You’re trying to undo millennia of a one-way process in just a few short decades. You ever think that might have some consequence? No, no you didn’t. And now look – you’ve cocked it all up. Who can tell what’s about to happen? Shame, shame on you. And that one is right.”

You know what else needs warning labels? Puppies and kittens.

“Warning: playing with this animal is likely to induce feelings of happiness, joy, relaxation, and a desire to emotionally bond with it over the coming months. You’ve been warned.”

Writing Practice 12/15/2018

Presence vs. Presents

Presents: pretty, shiny, fancy, makes you feel special the first few moments.

Presence – close, comfort, intimacy. Make help encourage you to feel more special for a longer time; Presence lasts. Presents break.

Presents, when done right, are a great thing. Too many times these days, though, presents are a pale attempt to replace presence. And this is a tired critique. Many people have made the same. They say that we are becoming disconnected, losing touch, ignoring presence.

Yes, that is true. But, too, we have become lazy in our presents-giving. We are attempting to find shortcuts to telling people that we care much about them, that we care enough about them to consider their sensibilities, their sensitivities, the things they would enjoy. A gift card is cheap. So is cash. Even a gift card or a cash gift of a thousand dollars is cheap. Because it says you didn’t put any effort into deciding what to get me. It says you bought me my own job. You took a look, and said, “Eh, fuck it, I’m tired of thinking of that asshole. He can do the work for me. Here…” and you shove a stack of bills at me, make me go pick out my own gift. Far from being “the perfect gift!” I find gift cards to be imbecilic, juvenile, and irrational. They counteract the spirit of giving. They ruin presents. if you’re going to give me a “present” of a gift card, please do us both a favor and DON’T.

Instead, give me presence. Come over some afternoon when I didn’t expect it. Bring a six-pack of beer, or a pizza. Tell your friend to take my kids to the mall for an hour, and we’ll just sit and talk. Or make love. Or just watch television. Because we’ll be doing something, together, which is presence, and it would mean much more than generic Presents which are nothing more than abdication in disguise.

Extremely Bad Advice – Roommate “Situation”

Another one “borrowed” from Dear Abby. Thanks for doing the research for me, love!

Dear SJ: I’m a man in my mid-30s. For the past couple of years I’ve been in love with my best friend. She doesn’t know how I feel, and I know she doesn’t feel the same way about me. (She calls me the brother she always wanted.) I try hard to fight these feelings os our friendship can continue. She has been a huge part of my life, so losing her friendship would be devastating.

To make maters more difficult, we are currently roommates and spend lots of time together. My heart breaks when she goes on dates or talks a bout guys she may be interested in. I know she’Lloyd never see me as more than a friend. Is there any way I can get over these feelings so we can continue this amazing friendship? – FRIEND ZONE IN VERMONT

Dear FRIEND ZONE,

Seems pretty obvious to me. Your best friend / girlfriend is an incestuous freak. Don’t get me wrong – it’s not for everyone. But when someone talks about you as “the brother she always wanted”, that’s code for “I wanna bang my whole family.” Plus, why do you think she agreed to live with you? She’s been trying to grease the skids this whole time.

You see, there’s a big body of scientific literature that says exactly this: boys want to kill their fathers and replace them between their mother’s legs. It’s called the Oedipus Complex. It’s what drives so much of human evolution. “It was good enough for Dad, it should be good enough for me!” The parallel for women is the Electra Complex, which, my best guess is, has something to do with wiring your nipples to a car battery. Sounds like your friend has taken this to the logical extreme… if sons want to bang Mommy, then daughters want to bang Daddy. Since “society” says she can’t do that, she’s acting out in the nearest substitute possible: you.

She’s grooming you to be Dad’s replacement. It starts out as a surrogate brother, and once she’s got you hooked on that mental mind-warp she’ll start imagining her father’s face on your body when you’re doing it. Trust me, you don’t want to be on the inside of her mind when that happens. I’ve been there, it’s not pretty.

And don’t make the mistake of thinking that she’s really interested in these other guys she’s talking about our dating. Those are just a ploy to make you jealous – to make you see her as desirable – to incite you to finally “man up” and make your move. Let’s be honest: there’s never in history been a male / female couple that is just really good friends without both of them wanting to bone. And it’s not anybody’s fault; that’s just how we’re wired as a species.

So, what’s your move? Forget about “getting over the feelings”. You and I both know that’s not going to happen. Instead, you need to step up and step out. Tell her exactly what you feel. If you need help writing the script, it should sound something like this:

“Hey, Roomie, let’s be more than roommates. You know your lady-bits tingle when I walk in the room, ‘cause I feel the same way. My Tower of Power gets all electrified just thinking about you. Those other guys? They ain’t got nothin’ on me. Remember last month when you ‘accidentally’ walked in on me in the shower? Yeah, I ‘forgot’ to lock the door, and you somehow ‘didn’t remember’ that I take a shower every day at exactly that same time. Let’s not kid ourselves any more. We should do this, ‘cause, feelings, and stuff. What do you say?” Trust me, it’ll work out great. Soon you’ll be banging like a screen door in a hurricane and everyone wins.

And because I’m a good guy, I’ll even give you a Plan B. If she does happen to reject you (even though my analysis is on point like 98% of the time), and you really do want to forget all about your feelings, try this. Hit yourself in the head with a hammer. If you can remember, afterwards, why you hit yourself, do it again. Repeat as necessary. Toodle-ooo!

Extremely Bad Advice – Weight Loss Tips and Tricks

Dear SJ,

My doctor says I really need to lose 20 pounds. But I really don’t want to give up peanut butter. What should I do? EXTRA CHUNKY FOR THE WIN

Dear EXTRA CHUNKY,

First off, I gotta say, if your doctor says you need to lose 20 pounds, you can bet it’s more like 40. And if you’re in the US, I’ll put dollars to doughnuts that it’s really 60, but both your doctor and I know that if someone actually says that to you, you’ll pull a nope, nope, nopey nope nope. Like the 98% majority in this country, you would rather just be thin than get thin, so seeing the whole mountain of work in front of you becomes an intimidation rather than an inspiration.

And while I may decry the phenomenon, I’m not really that interested in beating my brains out to change community psychology. It’s like trying to unburn a campfire: in principle it can happen, but in practice it’s a one-way street. And this street is a supersize, extra grande, double-stuffed highway straight to the donut shoppe. Everyone does it, so why should you bother trying to stand out? Just accept the diabetes and the inevitable (but ultimately innefective) bariatric surgery. You’ll be much happier along the way, even if the way is materially shortened due to a heart attack or liver failure.

But, if you’re so committed to this self-delusion that you actually think you can lose weight, and you’re looking for some hints other than the standard “Eat Less, Move More” that you must have ignored already, I’ll give you a great plan to get off the Skippy.

First, enjoy all of the rest of the tub that you’ve got in your pantry. And I do mean “tub”, not “jar”, because fatties like you don’t buy peanut butter in the smallest serving size available. Am I right? Or am I right? I’m right. [nodding and winking] I’m right.

Next, go buy yourself 10 more tubs of peanut butter. For this exercise, they need to be the “natural” kind, where the oil settles out. Open them all, unseal them, and mix that oil back in. Take 2 tablespoons out of each one and eat them, in your preferred method. See, this isn’t so bad, is it? You got this!

Now, time for the payoff. Take an empty cup and head to the bathroom. Collect a urine sample. If you have other family members, you could recruit them to help you by donating theirs as well. “It’s a team effort!” Now – for ONLY ONE of those tubs, add the urine and stir again. Put all the lids back on, and forget which jar has your stanky old waste inside. Mix them up like a card sharp on 42nd Street and put them back on the shelf. Now, every time you to go grab a scoop of Extra Chunky, all you have to do is think, Yeah, but there could be pee in it. And poof! Desire gone.

Do write back in 6 months and let me know how it goes. I’m gonna bet my neighbor that it’s less likely you hit your weight loss goal than you say something like “Surprisingly, you really can’t even taste the ammonia!” Peace!