Whenever I open my browser it shows me the recent links (so yeah, Chrome, I know) and I feel like if I keep the link to this up at the top, I will see that fucker every time I go on to do something else and feel guilt and keep updating. On the one hand, is it dumb if I have nothing to say really? On the other… eh. Who gives a fuck.
I don’t like the guilt and I do like the feeling of accomplishment that I wrote something, even if it’s something completely mundane. I think it must be like jogging. Everyone I see who runs looks like they are in fucking agony. I know more than a few people who quit smoking and started running, because it – and this is an actual quote from one – “is a slightly healthier form of self abuse in the longer term.” He works in healthcare, too, so it’s like extra funny – especially the “slightly healthier” part. I suppose if his kids take it up in moderation as opposed to smoking that’s great for them, and he’s at least well aware that you can indeed fairly easily run yourself over the ledge of health into the hell of joint pain, shin splints, and weird cardiovascular crap.
I used to like walking really fast. No, I lie, I like it still (not fast enough to get shin splints. But I’m from Massachusetts. I walk fast. I hurt like a sonofabitch and the steroid injections in my hip have done some to help that, but really what they did was make it so that I can walk my normal speed again, which at least made me feel less… disabled. ) I can’t really do it, though. I mean, I can, but I have been told not to. I have been told it probably isn’t the best form of exercise. I also like to climb hills, and I am realizing now that even gentle ones make me pay. That’s some bullshit. It is. That said, I have gotten to the point in my life where I have developed this weird apathy. I know that’s not a good thing generally. Trust me, I have had apathy in conjunction with depression and that is a terrible place and there is help for shit like that and if you need it, please reach out for it. You shouldn’t seriously not give a shit if you live or die. You shouldn’t take unnecessary risks because you’re maybe kinda hoping, okay? This isn’t what I am talking about… but if you experience the depression apathy combo, please talk to a professional. They can work wonders and you’re not alone.
I have this apathy that is more akin to having run out of fucks. Previously, when there wasn’t a virus causing blood clots to form all the fuck over blowing around (just what someone who can get blood pressure readings so high that I can cause nosebleeds in other people, just by looking at them needs) I could go somewhere, and we’d have to park a block away, and before we made it out of the garage I was trying to hide the fact I wanted to cry because my hips were being such shit heads. And that was hard because there weren’t any mobility aids or shit handy in most places and I would probably crawl before I used a chair (though I have thought about a snappy rollator. They make them for people who… you know, don’t want a rollator. I laughed when I saw some of the ad copy. There’s a lady with greying hair, with some groceries and small dog in the seat/basket area, all terrain tires on the thing, and a hook to hold her larger dog’s leash, and I am thinking, “Living the dream, bitch!” They know their target audience.)
But we were in the Seaport and I didn’t want to crawl there because I had my good sweatpants on. Ha, you think I am kidding. I’m not. I had my good sweats on, you fools. Everywhere else though? I am out of fucks. I will go in the backyard. We have a hill, and a small rocky outcrop (not quite large enough to practice real rock climbing, but large and challenging enough to test out rock climbing equipment… at least shoes and hand holds). It is high enough you can see from the street. And believe me, when I venture up there, with or without camera in hand, I am usually on my ass even in flat areas, and I am quite visible. Sometimes people sneak off the golf course and drink and throw their beer bottles up there. And I can see these bright objects from the bathroom window (just like they can see me pee, but who’s fault is that for looking? I can’t be responsible for your trauma, you littering pervs.) So I go up there, first climbing like normal, then hunched a bit more, then laying flat and slithering until I get the bottles. Sometimes there are briers all over and I am yelling “SHIT! FUCK! FUCKING STABBY SHIT PLANT ASSHOLES!” and I am sort of amazed that in the past two years nobody has called the police… even the weird soul who lived next door previously looked the other way. Because I grab the bottles that are quite clearly those large fancy schmancy party beers (I don’t know. I don’t drink. It would be a disaster if I drank. I have to say… as much as I hate the current president, some things he has said ring real true. “I don’t drink, can you imagine what I would be like?” I… I can relate to that.) I grab the fancy blue and red and brownish colored beer bottles with the artsy fartsy labels (if they still have them) and I do the same back down the hill, only more of it is on my ass (both the travel and the actual material that makes the hill a hill… dirt, leaves, acorns, squirrels, you name it, it’s on my ass). And usually I am yelling “SHIT! FUCK! STABBY PLANTS ARE THE ONLY THING KEEPING THE GRAVITY FROM HAVING ITS WAY WITH ME!” and I go in, and throw out the bottles. Well, I recycle them. I’m not a fucking heathen.
And I’ll do that in less than secluded areas. I don’t care. I care what people think, but then, I really, really don’t. It’s a kind of apathy that helps at least get some stuff done, if wholly fucking inelegantly.
Look, I accomplished something by spouting this too. Go figure.