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The Unfairness of Toothpaste
It appears that even the denial of the career alcoholic has it's limits. From what I remember from my rehab loss and grieving classes there are like 7 stages to this shit, right? (And don't those rehab, and other 'experts, love lists? It's like "Of course we're experts! We have lists don't we? Now shut up and do as we say!" But I digress) The 1st of which is supposedly denial.
Well, I'll willing to give 'em that.
Next up is supposed to be anger. Well,I've been practicing that one for 50 years, so let's rock. Now I'm not gonna disavow that last post. No, I am still grateful and amazed by the goodness that surrounds me and, Lester knows, I don't want to screw up anyones's answered prayers but I woke up this morning (bah- DAH- duh-duh) and was nothing but pissed.
And all I could do was think about it until it was all my fault.
Hmmmmm. There's a telling statement. Let's work this jerky, shall we?
For every thought I release into the greymaze that says "I'm lucky to be alive w/my kids and guitar intact. It could have been worse." there's another one whispering "Settin' the bar a mite low, aren'tch Sparky?". For every time I'm genuinely touched by a box of dishes, towels etc. left anonymously at my door there's this evil little bitch in my brainpan hissing shit like "Check it, man, real people can give away better shit than you ever had." or "They're only helping you 'cause yr a pathetic failure."
Now I don't believe her. Not really. Not all the time. But she's always there, just waiting to get her chance behind the wheel. I've spent the last 5 days trying to rid myself of the idea that my house burned because I'm a bad person. I haven't been successful. I've felt, alongside major gratitude, guilt and shame for needing charity from the community. Notice I didn't type 'my' community. I'm not there yet. I actively refuse to belong to much other than failure (and the greatest barband in the world) and have no idea why.
For the sake of endless, useless argument, let's assume there's a god. Part of me thinks she blessed me and part of me thinks she missed me. But it doesn't matter what I think. It doesn't even matter what you think. What is, is. Yours, mine, theirs and oursand theirs. But no matter how many books we read or not. No matter how good or evil we are to one another in the end, we are all alone. And 95% of 'mine' currently sits in smolders not 300 yards away, my frightened cats dancing through the ashes.
But I should be happy, right? Right?
Well, fuck you!.
5 stages to go...........................
