“I couldn't live a week without a private library
- indeed, I'd part with all my furniture and squat and sleep on the floor
before I'd let go of the 1500 or so books I possess.” ― H.P. Lovecraft

Whistling In The Graveyard: July 13, 2008

Monday, July 14, 2008

Ok, so here's the thing. Remember a short while ago when I mentioned that things are happening in my life right now that may be changing my life considerably? Well they're happening again.

Quite a bit of what's going on I'm still not at liberty to talk about, but the gist of it is I'm getting the fuck out of here as soon as fucking possible.

This is not a new plan. I had this plan back in 2001 when I couldn't find a decent job in this fucking town, but then I did the one thing that living in this town is actually good for. I died. And I'm here to tell you that dying will really fuck your life up completely and as I general rule I don't recommend it.

Actually that's not true. I'm sure if I kept a list by the end of each day there's be six people on it that I could heartily recommend a sudden, painful death to, but I don't have the kind of time to stay on top of lists like that which is why I go days at a time without going outside.

So I'm here, working a job I hate because I can't find one I hate somewhat less, then I die and things get considerably worse. I move into my Grandmother's old house to save money and be less of a burden on my family while I wait for the best medical science that the 1800's can provide to patch me back up and send me back to the job I couldn't stand that was probably, in at least SOME small way, contributory to my lower intestine exploding.

It seemed the prudent move at the time.

Except that I hadn't taken into account that the house was right in the middle of all the groups of people that I most hate and try to avoid. Now I'm not going to say that somewhere, on a purely masochistic level, that it hasn't been entertaining. It has been very entertaining. Mostly to you people, but entertaining nonetheless.

But I've come to realize that ever since I died I've been spending my time waiting on the next thing that's supposed to fix everything and all the while awaiting the inevitable failure of said solution.

It only took seven years.

I never said I was smart.

But when I finally got up to Morgantown to get my surgery done, the one that was supposed to be the final solution to everything, and it catastrophically failed I started thinking. The realization was that My life isn't going to move forward here.

Living in Parkersburg is like treading water in the middle of the Atlantic. It'll keep you alive, but what's the use? The rescue party isn't going to find you. Your only hope for a quick end comes with an Oscar award winning score by John Williams.

What the fuck was I talking about? Oh yeah. I suddenly find myself with no next thing that's supposed to fix everything and this depresses me, so I decide to start seeing a therapist again.

I'd managed to put together that when I'm here I feel bad and when I go away I feel good and you don't have to be Sigmund-fucking-Freud to figure that the fuck out, but I felt trapped by the whole “Just a few more months and everything will be ok” phenomenon which I've now COMPLETELY abandoned, which feels fucking GREAT!

The other thing that kinda kept me here, apart from believing that if I went elsewhere I'd never get my body fixed (which is ironic in that waiting for my body to get fixed has been steadily killing my mind) is that I'm afraid that if I spend enough time in any one place then I'll come to hate it too. That it's not the place, it's me, so why not stay in a place that really DESERVES my contempt, you know?

Well I'm now preparing to move to the next place that I'll surely come to hate in time. A lovely place that will quickly become the target of my undeserved wrath and you ungrateful bastards had better enjoy it.

Where was I? Right, the therapist. I'd been seeing one before and I liked her well enough, but after like the first visit when she assured me that I wasn't insane I really only kept going because the government was paying for it and she had really nice tits.

Fuck you people. I built this little corner of the interweb from which to say whatever the fuck I'm feeling. Not my fault you come here and read it.

But after the most recent medical fuck-up I was feeling kinda down, so I got a new therapist. I only stopped seeing the other one because she moved to Richie County and FUCK THAT PLACE.

In addition to having a nice rack my last therapist really didn't contribute much to what was going on. I'd go in, talk for an hour, stare at her chest, she'd take notes, probably ABOUT me staring at her chest and then I'd go home and engage in a bit of self-therapy and that was that.

One hour once a month for me to bitch about my problems to someone that doesn't know me. Some people say they can't talk about personal stuff to someone they don't know and I don't get that. I'm the other way. If I'm with someone that I don't know, they don't know me, we're probably never going to interact socially EVER there's is virtually nothing I can't tell them. The two reasons for this being that A: they have no preconceived notions about the things I'm saying based on having known me in the past and B: it's not like they're going to tell my friends.

It also kinda strikes me that I talk about a lot of shit on here too and most of you people have never and will never meet me and there's a lot more of you coming here than I ever expected., so, you know, thanks for contributing I guess.

And if I move to a place that I don't hate every minute of every day can I still be funny? It's like when my new therapist suggested anti-depressants, as have virtually all the medical professionals I've seen in the last ten years, (including, it's interesting to note, my DENTIST) I pointed out the following. I am a writer and an artist. I work primarily in the field of comedy and the heart of comedy, it's very soul, is Tragedy. More specifically, tragedy happening to SOMEONE ELSE.

Think about it. You get kicked in the balls, it's a tragedy. Guy across the street gets kicked in the balls, fucking HILARIOUS. So if I start taking drugs that distract me from the pain in my nuts then can I still entertain you fuckers? Most likely not. So my pain fuels my writing which entertains you guys which makes me happy, but drives me to continue being depressed.

So see, it's all YOUR fault.


So ASAFP I'm moving to Columbus Ohio.

I'm doing this for a variety of reasons. The biggest one being that they have good hospitals there. It's also not too far from home (but far enough that the Mid-Ohio-Valley air and water can't poison me anymore) and I know people there.

I know people here too, I know, and I encourage them to take my example and move to a place where the local economy isn't based on poisoning them.

I'm serious about that too, I've had a near-constant sinus infection for like the last year, spent two weekends out of town and it cleared up. Back home and after just a few hours my lungs hurt. Next morning, you guessed it, sinus infection. It's either this town or this house or both and since my only real option for getting out of this house is going back to my Mom's I'm going to Ohio.

I've got a lot of other stuff going on right now, but it'll have to wait. Got to get up early, hit the bank and drive up there to go apartment hunting. With luck I'll be up there before the first of next month.

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