Rage and I are taking a break to see other people.

AKA I lost my mind and all I got was this lousy blog post

One thing you should know about me: No one. Messes. With. My. Mama.

So when she texted me the pic above a few days ago, I uh…kinda lost my shit.

And I am not exaggerating when I say I was ready to kill.

Now listen: Despite my crusty exterior, once you get to know me, I’m actually all soft and doughy. Which, I guess, means in this example, I’m…a baguette? Whatever, let’s go with it.

Now picture our main character, the baguette, transforming into, say, a werewolf with a chainsaw. (Wow! What a great movie idea! This shit writes itself!)

Ahem.

My point is, when someone threatens my people, I completely transform into someone else.

So when some worthless idiot vandalized my mom’s car (in that very specific place that sends a very specific message) I leapt into my magical transformation readily. I knew I was fully transformed when my wife gave me that wide-eyed, oh-shit-its-happened-again look that she does at such times.

But for me, it was just business as usual, really. Lately, I’ve had my killing shoes at the ready. I haven’t even had a chance to transform back to my, um…bread-y little self.

Whatever, the point is, when this happened, when some coward smashed a giant rock through my mom’s window on her Kamala sticker (I feel compelled to add that she also has a sticker on the window that says: “I hope something good happens to you today.” Sigh.) I realized that since the election, I’ve been in a constant, low-level state of fight or flight. (Obviously, I tend to be a fighter.)

When I started this blog, I was running on adrenaline and rage. I had written blog post zero before I took it live because I wanted to have several posts written to give myself a buffer for those times when the shit hits the fan.

As someone whose life has been dominated by shitstorms and ceiling fans, I knew it was when rather than if.

I knew I had stay ahead of it if I wanted to post regularly.

And then: Shit, meet fan. Fan, meet shit.

In this case it was a giant orange pile of shit meeting the fan of American stupidity and hatred.

Thus the adrenaline and rage.

So I posted special election bulletin and just like that, I had taken my Substack live before I was ready.

Which is just how it should be because you’re never really ready. At least I’m not.

Almost every cool thing I’ve ever done I was shoved into before I was ready.

At first it worked great. The rage, I mean. I really thought I was on to something. I had the epiphany: “If I just stay coked up on rage all the time, I won’t have to rest anymore! This is the new me!”

I was so excited by this new plan that I barely heard an older, wiser, and very weary part of myself mutter something about how I had just described my teens and 20’s and there was nothing new about it. But, fuck her. She’s always grumbling about something.

Rage is awesome!

Rage swept me off my feet and I was so caught up in our honeymoon phase that I forgot what it costs me to maintain a state of hyper-vigilance and adrenaline that keeps me ready to kill at a moments notice.

Rage like this incredibly powerful, occasionally appropriate and expensive. If you use it, it better be worth it.

Because payment will come due and I pay for it with…myself.

I'm basically eating myself to feed myself.

And since I am neither Uroboros or a character in a Stephen King story (see “Skeleton Crew” for details. Or actually, don’t)

This is not sustainable for me.

Which brings me to today.

Today, I am tired.

I don’t mean I’m sleepy.

I mean I am scraping my knuckles bloody on the bottom of my barrel of hope for this world.

Aside from the few glimmers that keep me going (some of those glimmers come from you guys reading this, so, truly, thank you.)
I am so, so done with hearing stories about people being horrible to each other, to this planet and to every other being trying to share it with us selfish apes.

Today my depression reached out to reassure me that it hasn’t forgotten me, it was just resting up for the holidays.

Also I accidentally ate a box of razor blades for lunch. (It was actually black bean soup, but apparently my stomach can’t tell the difference. She makes this mistake often. Even with foods that I ate yesterday without incident. Her motto is: when in doubt it’s definitely razor blades.)

And I just poked myself in the eye with my glasses.

Oh, also, how did it take so long for me to realize that life is pointless and stupid and I hate it? Why didn’t y’all tell me?

Lately, I’ve been reminded just how dark it can get in here.
Some folks I know feed a feral cat colony. They use paper plates held down with rocks to keep them from blowing away. This image keeps coming back to me. I am that paper thin plate, pinned in place by the heavy stone of my heart.

Right. Teens and 20’s. I remember you.

I maintain that rage is a really useful survival tool when it’s all you’ve got. It’s kept me alive more than once.

It’s just not a tool that works for long.

Every other emotion that was burned away in that blinding white rage-scape didn’t actually go anywhere. It was just waiting for a quiet moment so it could have my full attention.

Damn.

But I’ve just kept working, turning to snort lines of rage and indignation whenever I start to fade.

I wanted to launch my mini series about “Beginning” that I have been working on for awhile and I was not going to be deterred from posting it today dammit.

My attitude up til now was: “I don’t care how my body feels. I don’t care how my brain is functioning. This is what I had planned and this is what I’m doing. It’s called professionalism.”

No, actually, it’s called ego.

And repeatedly stripping the gears of my soul trying to shove myself into drive to post something that has very little to do with what’s actually true for me right now…

Goes against everything I’m trying to do here.

Fucking ego. No matter how many times I try to throw it out, it keeps showing up in a new disguise and I admit that lately I’ve just been too tired and sad to check everyone’s ID at the door to my soul.

I apologize. Not just to you, but to me.

The aforementioned mini-series will come out soon.

But in the spirit of authenticity, I decided this would be a better story to tell you, even if it’s not the story I wish I was telling you.

I know this is one of my more heavy posts, but what I want you to take away from it is this:

I’ve been here before. I know my mind and its ghosts and which rooms are haunted.

And I will bounce back. I always bounce back. And I promise you, I’m a little tougher and a little wiser each time.

For now, blasting Sleep Token’s last album has made me feel better. The warm, purring weight of my most faithful protector is making me feel better.

Writing to you guys, knowing you’re out there, makes me feel better.

Thank you again. And thanks for listening.

As always,

Love and Hisses,

K