The Currency of Happenis
I’ve been trying to find things to be happy about–things to feel grateful for, things to make it all better, and I’ve obviously been at somewhat of a loss for quite a while. It’s been hard to even just STAND our lives, and I’ve begun to realize both of us are literally just waiting to die. I told Don this this morning while I was reading, trying to absorb another book full of help for myself but realizing something just hasn’t clicked in there–because nothing has really seemed to speak to ME, specifically, but sure, you can pull helpful elements out of anything if you just try hard enough.
I told him…”you realize both of us are literally in a pattern of waiting to die, that’s all either one of us is doing right now.” We’ve been paralyzed so long by our own inability to make shit happen that it seems we will just languish and die in this apartment–maybe me going first and him going right after due to no natural causes but his inability to tolerate the world, too. He told me now that he knows exactly how shitty everyone in the world is after the election that he just doesn’t want to be around anyone right now. Anyone, but me, of course, but I think we recognize in each other that acknowledgment that the world is a fucking shitty place and sometimes it does seem impossible to find any threads worth hanging onto. I’ve developed a kind of mild agoraphobia because I don’t want to leave my apartment or go anywhere, really–there’s not a place I want to go right now that doesn’t leave me with a foreboding sense of something bad will happen if we try to do that. Yesterday we got a ticket in the park because we had Duke off-leash for literally 2 minutes because it was a small puppy and the leash was too heavy and dragging on her…so the fucking bearded park ranger didn’t want to hear it and decided we deserved a fucking hundred dollar ticket for our minute of transgression, because, well that’s his job, to ruin the days of the people he comes across. Imagine that for a life? But it was the ONE thing we had tried to do in public together, walk our dog TOGETHER in weeks, but that’s apparently the fucking lesson god or king douche or fate or whomever makes this shit happen wanted me to learn. Don’t leave the fucking house Deanna. Okay, fine, I fucking hear you, okay?
And I don’t want to. There’s one restaurant 300 feet behind us I can stand, the Chinese food place next door to that and a rather unsexy manifestation of a pizza place which has an online ordering system averaging about 40 minutes behind what it states for pickup–that was what pissed me off on Wednesday, waiting over an hour and never getting my damn pizza after a promise of 25-30. I know, first world problems, right? Yup, we survive on food and the possibility of good food to drag us through our days–and we are both thin so I don’t get it.
I told my birth father the other day that I wouldn’t care so much about politics or people or the world at large if I had a kid, because having one allows you to skirt past unreasonable and time consuming thoughts of the world and everyone’s place in it…and if you do get that moment to ponder, I am sure it is gone with just a poke or prod from your spawn.
I’ve got me and him and my dog to be concerned with, given those are the only creatures extending me any comfort of friendship. The big piggy and I talk, just because, we will always be friends (that’s E, if you keep up with me at all–he’s been gone from my life that way for a while but we talk enough-). Francis, too sometimes, but it seems and it really fucking hurts my feelings, but it feels like I have been forgotten, both of us erased from the world at large only to exist in the small cocoon of a 500 sq foot apartment. I now live in a state which holds the majority of my blood and adoptive relations and I would wager people never think about us. Well, if they do, they are doing it quietly and without any noise at all. Then again, what is this, year 5 here and still everything is just so uncomfortable.
I don’t know where we can go, if we can go, or if we are really just going to be stuck here. I opened a can of worms with our taxes, both of us so behind I made him go with me to an accountant. My motive in this was not to extend the torture but to suspend it–so that if I died in a month or whatever that he would be in a better position to be legit and just take my life insurance without getting tangled up in matters of the past.
Oh, and this thing, too. I have a vacation in a few weeks and we are going to sign the what do you call it–the affadavit of common law marriage because, just like all other normal things you fuckers all take for granted, there is no place in our world to afford something as extravagant as any party for any wedding, dress, rings, whatever. So, that’s another dream I am nuking…but I mean, really. I am 40. Who the fuck gets married at 40? Yeah, I know people do, but the novelty of seeing me get married is probably lost on everyone, me included. He needs insurance, and it’s the only way to do it. So much fucking happiness from my direction, how can you even stand it?
Oh…but how could I forget, the title. How could I lose the relevance of my title in my ramblings? Because I do that, ramble. Don always says you can’t say happiness without saying penis and it is the only thing either one of us can do to bring the other ANY joy, really. Have sex, at least once a day or he gets moody–but it seems his penis is the only thing really keeping either of us going at all. My happiness is totally wrapped in a penis package, and though it’s great–I mean it IS great…it just seems like we can’t live off penis forever…but maybe Happiness means just that kind of hap-penis.
