Category Archives: Things I’m Not Qualified to Address but talk about anyway

Not About Sportsball

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This post is a little different.  From time to time, I actually do talk about other things, and some of those are serious. This is one of those.

Instead of posting a doodle and telling you how I think we should re-name “tennis” to “fuzzyball smackracket” because it makes more sense, I want to talk about this. (We may get back to fuzzyball smackracket another time, though. Dunno.)

This is National Suicide Prevention Week. I thought about making a smart-alec post about the 5 most epic ways to snuff it (number 5 was spacewalking without a suit, but Kubrick beat me to it) with the overall point being to give better alternatives, that suicide isn’t the right choice. But some things are just too big to fit into silly pictures and stupid hyperbole. Like this.

I’m going to tell you that if you are depressed and if you are considering suicide, don’t. Suicide is not your best option.  I’m not going to tell you it’s not a logical thought. I’m not even going to promise you tomorrow will be better.  Why? Because I know what it’s like to believe it IS logical and to have faced so many “tomorrows” that I no longer believed it could get better.

It does get better. But it won’t be tomorrow.  There’s no magic way you’re gonna wake up and everything will be perfect in the morning, but you know what you will have? The rest of your life, a life that will get better.

If you are suicidal or dealing with self-harm, go to the ER. If you can’t, call a friend. Call a doctor. If you can’t do those or you don’t think that you can talk to someone you know, there’s still someone to call.  Toll-free, private and 24/7, you can call 1.800.784.2433 or 1.800.273.8255. If you are hearing impaired, you can call 1.800.799.4889.

I have dealt with clinical depression most of my life. I have been suicidal for the majority of it. I’ve been hospitalized more than once. But you know what? I’m still here. And it’s been years since I wanted to kill myself. And no, my life isn’t perfect, but it’s so much better.  And it keeps getting better.

Suicide is a decision you can’t take back. It’s an act you can’t reverse.  Everything else in your life is something you can change or improve – unless you end it. Suicide is stopping your narrative cold. Please, don’t do that.

Every breath you take is another time you told depression to suck a bag of rotten weasel dung. It’s another battle you won. Every day you wake up, you’re a HERO.

Not everybody deals with depression. There are people who feel pretty good most days and live typical lives. They don’t know what it’s like to struggle to find meaning, to find a reason to go on. You know what? That’s great. I’m happy for them. But the resilience I see in those who’ve stared at the darkness of depression and decided to fight is incredible.

You don’t have to do it alone. There are people to talk to and programs available. If you are prescribed medication and can’t afford it, there are programs by manufacturers that can help with that, providing low or no cost meds. Finding the right meds is no fun. But the first time you realize it’s been weeks since you thought life had no point, since the end of everything seemed like the best idea? That’s actually a rush. And it can happen for you, too.

I wish this was something that could be sorted with easy platitudes. I wish there was a button to push to change it all. But it’s hard and it takes work. But more than anything, I want you to hear this: it is worth it.

I’m going to say that again because it’s true:  it is worth it. YOU are worth it.

Don’t take the step you can’t take back. Don’t let the darkness win.

Live.

And tell depression to suck a bag of weasel dung.

 

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It’s Sportsball Season Again

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Because it’s always sportsball season because Jesus doesn’t want me to be happy, I guess.

Anyway, I figured this was a perfect excuse opportunity to explain how much I don’t grok about any sportsball. Any. And what’s more, if you tried to explain it to me, honestly, I’m gonna start humming Pachabel’s Canon in D until you stop. If we’re both infinitely lucky, it’ll only be in my head. If you are passionate about sportsball, neither of us will be lucky.

The thing is, everything I know about any kind of sportsball I know because I had friends/family/whoever who was interested in it when I was younger and nearly all of my exposure to sportsball has been without my personal consent.  I had to be in the Pep Band to flute at people. I had to go to games featuring brothers or cousins or whatever because if you love family, you go and do things you hate because family.  I would read or take pictures or do pretty much anything that didn’t involve watching the “game” and it’s really left me with a cyclopedic knowledge of all things sportsball — if we define cyclopedic in this context as “patchy at best.” Mostly I just like the word cyclopedic and it’s my freaking blog.

(Speaking of, I have family humans who have snuck in without my knowledge. Everybody just act normal till they get bored and wander off, okay? NOBODY MENTION THE SQUID PORN.)

Anyway, I figured I’d open sportsball season (because it’s ALWAYS sportsball season) by explaining exactly how much I know about stick-puckey on ice. The NHL prefers we call it “hockey,” but that’s ridiculous. There’s not any kind of hock involved in stick-puckey on ice, while I can demonstrate precisely how much stick, puckey and ice are involved in stick-puckey on ice. My name is better; I win.

Did I mention the razor blades? Oh. Well, also razor blades.

Did I mention the razor blades? Oh. Well, also razor blades.

Stick puckey is what happens when people (in this case, Canada) decides to become a relatively peaceful nation. See, most humans aren’t actually peaceful by nature. They’re terrible. Or, okay, some of them. But instead of traipsing off and colonizing the rest of the world, Canada decided to start Stick Puckey. This is essentially what happens when you don’t do war, but you still want to hurt people. If you’re Canada, you look to your national resources — in this case, ice. What do you do with 78% of your country is made of ice and beavers and the beavers are all rabid? You start smacking people with sticks while dancing on razor blades. On ice.

The puck is there mostly to give some excuse for the violence. Don’t be fooled. It’s incidental. It was actually a pancake that fell onto the ice during the inaugural game and got written into the rules by accident.

I’ve had people try to explain “scoring” and “goals” and “leagues” and that kind of thing to me, to which I … blank out and star at their left ears till they shut up. Partly because I watched The Mighty Ducks and I don’t care what you say: stick puckey is absolutely about smacking people with sticks. I think the points are awarded for not actually killing people.

Join us next time when we’ll discuss another thing I don’t know about!

Yes, But That’s Stupid

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That’s what I WANTED to say on a FB post earlier, one that reminded me why I normally like to pretend that FB doesn’t exist. This one was about something forgettable, but I realized I want to say it a LOT when I’m on Facebook.  Twitter, on the other hand, is full of brilliant and witty people with whom I actually engage in useful discussions.  Social media is awesome, except when it sucks.

Moving on, though, to the real crux of this post.  It’s about Google.

Listen, Google. You do great work. You’re really good at what you’re good at.  Hell, I’m even using Chrome right now on my Mac because you nailed the browser thing. Nailed it. I was a beta tester for gmail. Remember those days?  Back when people had to use hotmail or Yahoo! just to talk to each other? Dark days, my friend. But then there was Gmail. There was light. And 1GB of space. I know that sounds silly now that you’ve given us, what, 15GB? And Google Drive? I even briefly considered acquiring a Chromebook at some point in the future before my iThings ganged up on me and threatened my survival. Anyway, I’m just saying that there are things you are really good at and you should stick to those things.

This is the awkward part, though.

You’re known for creative thinking. Innovation. Doing stuff in a different way.  That’s why I was really sad to see the Google Doodle on Monday.  I mean, I almost didn’t even mention it because, let’s face it, I’m afraid you’ll take away my data or something. You hold the power in this relationship.  But remember last week when I invented the Quantum Reactive Schröedinger’s  Pie cult? Last week. Like, before Monday.

Okay, I know I didn’t invent Schröedinger or the idea of quanta reacting differently on observation, but I did draw pictures about it. Like… three of them. Maybe it was two. I don’t know, Google; I’ve had a couple Klonopin smoothies since then and it’s a bit of a blur.  But the thing is Monday, I saw this:

You and I both know what you did. Is this a cry for help?

You and I both know what you did. Is this a cry for help?

Really, Google, you could at least have been subtle about it.  This is just blatant. I really feel like maybe you need to talk to someone. Have you called your mother? Google, we can get through this, but you have to stop cribbing off my blog. Just admit you have a problem and, I don’t know, Google something. See? That’s another thing you’re good at.  You don’t have to keep following me online.  It’s a little creepy, sometimes, really.  I’m sorry. It just had to be said.  I think we might need some time apart — except for email and searching and browsing and storing things online, I mean. But all that other time?  Yeah.  I need space.

It’ll be okay, Google.  But I’m not letting you borrow my iPad again.

 

I really don’t think that’s a good idea.

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I’m spending some of the time my brain hates me brushing up on languages I used to be really good at. Specifically, I’m working on my Spanish and my German skills. At the same time. Because I’m an idiot. (Also because they are two different families – Romantic & Germanic – and don’t have a lot of overlap in areas that would be confusing, such as if I were doing Spanish and Portugues, French, Italian or any of those other languages with fewer than 9,000 declensions per verb form.)

Originally, it was a little bit depressing because it showed me how much I’ve forgotten. But then I started getting into it and realized I hadn’t forgotten as much as I thought.

Still, I think the people writing the lessons might be on crack. I’m pretty sure that horses aren’t supposed to eat bread and that making a duck drink milk might actually be a felony in some states…. They also reminded me that the soldiers aren’t green, the baker will not dance and that my mother is not a priest. They have some strong opinions.

But who knows? Maybe ducks really LIKE milk and I just never noticed because I’m lactose intolerant. Wow. Way to be self-absorbed AND enzyme deficient, me.

I do know how to tell you a straight up lie in German. It involves children happily eating onions. I also had to declare repeatedly in both languages that I am a man. (I’m not. That I know of, at least. Shit. Maybe this language program knows something I don’t and is just waiting till I’m fluent enough for them to spring it on me that I’m a dude and just never noticed. Way to make me paranoid, LANGUAGE!)

Dammit.

Oh well.  I fully expect to be bilingual by the end of the week. That’s realistic, right?

It seemed like a good idea at the time…

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I live in Mordor, but I’m pretty sure I heard ice giants on the move….

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It made more sense in my head….

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So there’s not really a post today, as you can tell because it’s all dark outside and I usually have a post up around lunchtime. But sometimes life demands that you take a day off.  Or possibly three.  And then life will troll you and you will accidentally have an allergic reaction, take a grown-up dose of benedryl by taking several pediatric melty tabs of benedryl and when your BFF wonders why you’re so out of it, you’ll tell her with a meaningful look, “ALL MY SKIN IS BEES” before falling dead asleep again.

Probably you didn’t have a stroke.  At least if you’re me.

And that’s a good thing. Which is really the lesson to take from this.  Not how to OD on baby benedryl. Because that is almost never a good idea.

Twitter Hates When I Tweet About Movies

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No, really.

All I did was queue up a movie and when Netflix trolled me with every damn tearjerker from my childhood, I fought back.  (By the way, Netflix?  I NEVER WANT TO WATCH OL’ YELLER OR WHERE THE RED FERN GROWS!  WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU??)  *ahem*  I fought back, by an overwhelmingly unanimous 2 – 0 vote with watching and live tweeting Hellboy.  Yes I did.

I had never watched Hellboy.  No, you can’t have my geek card. I had to give it up when I admitted I hadn’t watched BSG until this year either.

Anyway, every time I try to do something FUN or AWESOME, Twitter flings me in Twitter Jail because Twitter is a jerk. I may be anthropomorphize the media platforms in my life, but WordPress doesn’t seem to mind so I don’t think I’m gonna stop any time soon.

If you haven’t seen Hellboy (which has been out for 9 years now, so shut up) probably stop reading about ….here.  ‘Cause I’m going to summarize everything about that movie and probably spoiler the hell out of it.

The story (according to the movie, not the comic; quit being pedantic and try to remember this is a humour blog, okay??) is essentially that during the fall of the Nazis and the end(ish) of WWII, there’s an island in the middle of nowhere that has nothing but bad weather, angry Germans and nervous sheep.  The angry Germans are screwing around with paranormal shit as they apparently did all the damn time because why not? Somehow, they implode some kind of intergalactic space anus and it shoots out a demon baby.  Then everything gets explodey and people start sprouting blades.  It’s really only one guy, but he moves pretty fast, so it seemed like everybody….

So when you’ve exploded all the Nazis, what do you do with the recently expelled space demon?  Keep him, duh.  And just so he doesn’t grow up with a complex, you feed him candy all the time and call him “Hellboy.”

Then there was blah, blah, blah romantic sub plot and Agent Sparky McBoyScout who basically got on everybody’s nerves by almost never being a compelling character.

Oh. There’s a lot of Rasputin and some aquatic variant of Sammael all mixed in here and an aquatic mutant called Abe Sapien who should really rule the world by now since he’s pretty brilliant, amphibious and basically the most British mutant possible.  But I digress.

What with all the Rasputin-ing going on, of course everybody ends up in Moscow with explosives and the bossy agent no one likes whom I’ve dubbed Agent Asshead.  He mostly exists to whine about things.

Hellboy straps a talking dead guy to his back to use as the creepiest GPS ever and they go look for Rasputin’s tomb because reasons. And of course it’s boobytrapped and full of things that murder in a really flashy way.  Everybody gets separated, nameless agent #1 dies pretty much immediately, Agent Asshead whines about things. Hellboy gets cranky.  Agent Boy Scout and Sparky the Flame Chick (Liz) go traipsing through a tunnel with Agent Nameless #2.  (He dies. FBI agents are like red shirts in the movie).

Agent Boy Scout and Sparky the Flame chick find a den of Aquatic Sammy demons and have a mild panic with Sparky apparently forgetting she can toss fire all over the place and that the aquatic demons aren’t flame proof.

Hellboy breaks stuff, Agent Asshead disappears without explanation and isn’t ever really addressed again. Sparky flames all the demons and passes out. Agent Boy Scout gets a hammer to the face, Sparky gets her soul ganked out by Raspy and Hellboy has to say his name so he can open the space demon hell gate and let all the evil through.

He half unlocks it, remembers he’s not a bad guy, Rasputin gives birth to a squid demon, Hellboy explodes it and then whispers Sparky back to life while Agent Boy Scout gives Significant Looks to the camera.

The end.