Where The F*ck Is Rants?
I’ve had a lot of kind notes and comments from The Blogosphere asking me exactly what the actual fuck my problem is, and why the fuck I’m not posting. After about fifty of these questions, the idea sunk in: people wanted to know what is up with me. Yes, it requires a 2×4 to get my attention. In a survival situation, a thick skull can be a game-winner.
So here’s what’s up with me and my life:
Divorce – I am now divorced. This turned into a circus of epic proportions after I fired the lawyer. Life Lesson Learned: Lawyers are just assholes like you and me who conspicuously consumed an education on how to write documents with fruity-ass language. This process required over four months and began the day after I stepped off the airplane from Afghanistan.
Move – With task Number One above out of the way, nothing stood in the way of long-standing plans to move Mama Rants in with me. No more worrying about the creeping crack house boundary in her neighborhood. Also, no worrying about Mama Rants on a ladder pruning trees with a chain saw. The Big Move goes down this weekend. Update may follow. Or it may not.
My Shit – The Army loves to check on things. This means I’ve been compelled (forced) to endure probes and lights and sensors in a variety of orifices to ensure that I’ve returned from Afghanistan intact. Sadly, none of the devices measures how mentally fucked up ongoing, unending, soul-crushing stress can make a person. Plus, I’ve apparently turned my shoulder joints into something resembling Christmas bows, and we’re still probing to figure out what the lumpy thing is in my gut. This is now important to document, along with my cataclysmically-worn-out feet, before I have to retire… because the Army’s seen fit to not promote me any further. Not that I’m bitter – it’s sort of a liberating blessing in the form of an icy, barb-wire sex toy up your ass.
Finding My Ranty Self – If you think that’s enough, I’ll add that one or two days was devoted to getting blind, piss-fucking-drunk. On purpose. You call it substance abuse, but in my world this is therapy. I’ll also add that I picked up a hobby in Afghanistan: I’m writing. I’m not writing blogs – I’m writing books. More to follow on this note, but thanks to all of you (all y’all, plural form, in Texan) for allowing me to warm up on you for over two years.
How am I? Actually, I’m fucking great. Following this weekend, I am intentionally down-powering the external demands on me. In other words, I’m going to start saying ‘no’ to people. In fact, it started with Mama Rants. I said no to all Christmas decorating except the tree. Even there, I informed her I’d set it up, put the lights on it (she’s maybe 5’1″), and then assist by giving advice. Any further tree decorating, I promised her, would be done overhand and while drunk.
The next task on the horizon will be my final Army move. No idea where, but like Winter, it’s coming.