Sorry, I took a break for a while. Anyway, I'm frightened by the sight of blood. Some people grow out of it, some don't. I even tried being an EMT many years ago, hoping it'd help me get over it. Throughout my formative years mother, God rest her soul, would leave sanitary napkins- sometimes folded, sometimes not- on the edge of the bath tub during the night. I'd come downstairs either first thing in the morning or in the middle of the night to pee and would find what I thought at the time were bandages, thinking that someone had gotten injured while I was asleep. As with everything else growing up I never discussed this, never asked about it. Father was a psycho, mother was meek and frightened and my siblings and I never talked much about anything. Everything was a secret, everything was taboo, no one dared talk about anything or ask questions. Father, when he was around, exploded at the slightest provocation and was always over eager to find the nearest prop to beat us with. Mother even got in on the beating game, but felt guilty afterwards. One night when I was probably about 8 or so we'd heard mother and father yelling and banging things around, and when I crept downstairs under the guise of having to use the bathroom I saw broken glass on the kitchen floor, mother staring into the bathroom mirror holding a bloody towel around one of her hands, crying and father sitting at the kitchen table with a cold, vacant sneer on his face. As with every other similar incident I didn't dare question anything. I simply slunk out of the kitchen and went back upstairs. I hadn't had to pee, but I think I remember waking up in soaked sheets that next morning.
Sunday, April 11, 2021
Ned traveled up north this past weekend to visit his long-lost son. Ned and his wife enjoyed the long ride, only feeling the urge to strangle each other four or five times the whole way there and back. "It's only eight or nine hours each way," Ned said. You know how a confined space on wheels with one's significant other can be, especially when the purpose for your travel arrangements is to see the biological product of only one of you. Anyhoo, the visit went fairly well. Ned and his son had a fantastic time. Ned's wife only felt just slightly ignored. Ned and his wife stayed in a chain motel, which was basic but clean. Ned's wife pulled a disinfectant wipe cannister from their suitcase and proceeded to wipe down every possible surface, then sat to remove her shoes. The night was uneventful, the sheets were clean, they had no sex, and they didn't fight. The next morning they showered, Ned managing to rub one out while his wife took her turn, packed everything up, and checked out. Before leaving Ned had to take a shit, and when he sat he made a mental note of the low slung, shallow design of the toilet. After creating waves and splashes in the bowl he thought to himself "I'm so glad I don't have a large penis. I'm almost touching the bowl as it is, and I can't even imaging being hung like a bull and trying to take a shit without tapping against the porcelain."
It was good to see his son, and Ned's wife bit her tongue and made nice the best she could, thankful once again that she never cared to have children of her own. She pretended she didn't see the wad of bills Ned stuffed into his son's greedy paw or hear the son's whispered "bitch" comments. The return trip home was bland and uneventful, and they returned, physically drained but happy that another day had passed where one of them didn't try to kill the other.
Wednesday, April 7, 2021
I'm due for a visit to an eye doctor.
I've made us move so many times my wife is about to explode.
She has handled all insurance, medical, address change, relocation-related shit and everything else all these years.
I make the money but can't be happy with whatever job I'm working at any given time.
This last time would be the last, I said.
I'll retire from this one, I said.
I promise we won't move again, I said.
My eyes seem to be getting worse.
My right one has had floaters for some years, and lately my left one has had a foggy area.
Together, these spoil my love of reading. Large print books make it slightly easier, but the limited selection at the library is depressing.
Just the mention of a new doctor's appointment sets a storm a-brewing.
The insurance is shit. Out-of-Pocket is my new cringe phrase.
No need for concern or serious replies.