A friend of mine passed away last month.
And while there’s plenty of humor about dying and being dead, I thought I’d take a short stab at writing something less sophomoric that my usual nonsense. Not a full seven-inches-in-stab, like the murderer in the song Blood on the Dance Floor. Michael Jackson wrote some dark lyrics. But boy could he move like the wind. Anyway, I’m drifting. Back to the topic at hand – my friend’s death.
Originally posted at One Day at a Time
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Night is not a good time for me. The time when I’ve finished reading all my feeds, and all my online friends in other time zones were in bed hours ago, and finding something to occupy my mind becomes more difficult. Or even worse, when I’m settling down to try and sleep. It’s not always a good idea to leave me alone with my thoughts, with nothing to keep them at bay.
I realized about three years ago when I started therapy that I’m actually a dark person.
I remember being drawn to comedy at a young age – sneaking downstairs to watch HBO comedy specials laughing hysterically at well-crafted jokes by Buddy Hackett and Rodney Dangerfield. Bill Cosby’s Himself remains one of my absolute favorite sets. These were heroes of mine.
You know what makes me secretly jealous? Ugh, I just realized I started a post with one of those stupid questions. Starting fresh.
I am secretly (although now it’s public) jealous of those dudes that can put their feet up on their thighs in that weirdo pretzel thing. A few weeks ago I was in a group that I attend of the support variety and one of the guys just busts that out while on his chair. It looked so easy and confortable. Symmetrical.
I have something to share. Something vulnerable, embarrassing, and difficult.
An issue of mine.
Now, in a world of real problems like famine, AIDS, sex-trafficking, and Bieber-fever, this does not chart in the top, oh, I’m guessing 100,000 of actual situations that would qualify as an “issue.”
I'll never give this child another cigarette, pinky swears!
