As my right hand is busy doing “paperwork,” I might as well type with my left this post. I’m a multitasker. And an idiot. Too bad I can’t Alt-0146 those curly quotes.
Anyway, this is a story of how I may be getting dementia. Either from the sleep-deprivation or…something—I’m currently forgoing (back to) sleep typing this because of how long it takes me to write; I’m an actual Slow-Man (not to be confused with Slo-Man, who wrote a pretty funny post in May)…
I’ll take you back, all the way back—way, way back to when you were in diapers. It was 2010, and the standard kerosene heater was no longer working. It would be an expensive job, getting parts for a model no longer sold. And so, the thing wouldn’t be effectively fixed. It didn’t used to plume out a big puff of smoke into the living room, but at this point it did. Over $1,300 to get it working again? And I would have to hold my breath, or go to another room or the window?
Your traditional electric heater—or, a couple of them would replace the K1 heater. Well, actually, there are two K1 heaters—the other one purchased during a black-out, and hadn’t worked at all in the house, only posing a forever-fire hazard and smell of kerosene in the house, just sitting there…the electric K1 heater is the one out of service.
The full-blown electric ones, of course, are less efficient, and the house is rendered cold during the winter. And for this ass to be so alone during the winter, something broke inside. Well, something broke during the last year of High School, where my higiene shot to hell, and I refused to go to the graduation ceremony, but this time I would just be standing there, in front of the heater, eyes motionless, during a time at which there was malfunctioning TV service. Technically, my mother would be there at that point, and leaving, but I just stared off my future.
It’s one of the reasons why my poetry is so bleak: being so goddamn alone, even when I’m not, physically. All of those years of not building up friendships, and letting the semis fade away. That’s kind of what happens for a guy with little-to-no expectations of life does. There’s the fleeting moment of some communication with another person, and then there’s…Fox News, and getting a little sick during the 16:9 HD transition (a shrink of exactly 3:1), and then there’s… nothing.
And now there’s no TV service at all. I would say I don’t have a legitimate reason to be depressed when I am depressed because I read other blogs here of people who just get it physiologically and can’t control it. I somehow, somehow must have the ability to control my life, but can’t or won’t, so it must be my fault, or how dare you say you have depression—you don’t even cut yourself—the regular routine before I just gave up entirely. I postponed the full-blown “depression” thing I did because I didn’t want to depress you, but I guess this might.
A ‘follower’ means little to me, when it’s infrequent that any “conversational activity” online happens, where everyone—and I mean everyone drops out completely, and I’m left with myself, a PC and a broken monitor (the bottom half of the TFT screen is busted, forcing me to shrink windows to the top, unable to read certain dialogs…). I enter text, and what I’ve written and covered becomes forgotten; my programming work, although still active, forgotten…I become forgotten.
There is no one here right now, even. No one but me, and my deteriorating brain. I’ve come incapable of on-the-fly recalling details of my distant past. But since I’ve done virtually nothing since graduating HS in ’02, and still having no contacts, there isn’t much point. Having not been at welding sites or had an ounce of alcohol, I can say I probably don’t have dementia. But the “controlled hysterics” beg to differ.
I guess I’ll go back to cheating my way through Marathon Phoenix— I’m not wasting my time with the scant time I have left, perceived, playing video games all day.
Maybe I do have a legitimate reason to write here: to tell the stories that remain. (Even if no one cares.)
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Do you know of anyone that needs a friend (including me)? Don’t be afraid to drop a word.
I hear that rebecca2000 might even hump your leg (Doggy’s Style: your-2-cents-what-about-50#comment-2801). I kid, I kid. I hope she’s kidding too. Or do I? It would be nice if someone humped my leg…or would it?
So many of life’s questions left unanswered…
I do know that Creative Liar has gotten funnier…and more real.
The Dependent Independent 