Thursday, June 29, 2017

Haunting Harry Regret Fest '17

I consider myself to be a prolific regretter. It often consumes me. Not a day really passes or has ever passed in my life, regardless of the circumstances, where I was able to get through three squares and a nap without regretting SOMETHING; even if that something were was the fact that all I did was make it through 3 squares and a nap.

How's that for circular? For my next trick...

I could probably find a way to rue the day I rued the day, or drown myself in regret over regretting the regrettable.

Sure, a large part of this constant, somewhat needless introspection is simply an controllable self-absorption; a compulsion to live within the world I've established in my head. You know, the one that revolves around ME.

I regret admitting that.

No, really.

Another may be the need to feed the beast. Whenever I feel stuck or trapped or angry or whatever, I can simply comb through the broken memory files in my head to find the one that may be the reason for my current situation. I jump back into that moment, turn down the lights and watch that event play in a loop, over and over again, and again, and again.

I over-analyze the mistake or misstep or error or judgment or REGRET until I'm sufficiently satisfied that it is indeed the reason for the season. I take it to heart, feel bad and lose myself in the muck.

I take SOLACE in the muck. I lap it up and stew in my own juices. The more time I devote to this "self-punishment" (comfort), the less I have to make an effort to change what's in front of me (that would be WAY too hard).

I need an editor. I regret not having an editor.

I would say, on average, that I engage in this activity several times a day, at the least. I become frustrated or pissed off or sad, see a potential opening for escape, avoid it and sink back into myself for some good ol' problem avoidance...

Ah...regret. My old friend (fiend).

I could sit here and tell you that the above is all true, and that my self-therapy session is nearing a close.

But that would be disingenuous. Sure, I do use regret as a tool for bypassing real action. And when I do, boy is it comfortable!

But regret isn't just a pudgy marshmallow beanbag chair protecting my fat ass from the truth. Neigh neigh. It's also an incredible motherfucker.

Sure, I regret the time I stuffed paper towels down into the heating vent in 3rd grade, losing the respect of my favorite teacher when I had somehow effectively blocked it from memory and failed to fess up (the disappointment oozing from her eyes was palpable...I'll never forget).

I regret that time at Boy Scout camp when I shoved the kid off the rock step, into a thorny painful-looking bush, because I THOUGHT he had been saying something mean to my friend (I'm still not sure he said anything).

I regret not taking a swing at the kid picking a fight in the junior high school basketball court.

I regret giving up on writing very early on in my life to simply lose myself in self-hatred and depression (an event that lasts to this day!).

I regret not committing myself to grades and classes and learning in high school.

I regret taking a year off between high school and college (only to further my isolation from the world, people, etc.).

I regret lambasting my sister with 100 "c" words during a drunken angry escapade.

I regret that kiss I failed to plant.

I regret that job opportunity I bailed on after college.

I regret, well, I'm sure you get the idea. The point, I guess, is that what most people call the course of life, I lovingly refer to as Haunting Harry Regret Fest (Enter current year); not just an albatross but an entire mode of living...one I seemed doomed to wear until my brain melts into jelly and oozes from my ear.

And it may be strange to write this in blog format, or to write any of the things I've written thus far in blog format, because I'm not really a blogger, or a writer for that matter.

I don't regret that, or this, for whatever reason. But there's always time. It can always be added to the list later on.

Maybe the regret syndrome I've always seemed to suffer from (from about the age of 12) is just a mechanism for avoiding the present, or a rationalization for failing to prepare for the future.

Or maybe it's simply just a built-in feature of this magnetic personality I carry around in my suitcase every day; the one that beams light and jelly beans and candy canes and love throughout the land, and that smells of lust and cherry cola).

Maybe it's just a motherfucker. I made the mistake of sitting next to him on the bus one day, and now the motherfucker follows me EVERYWHERE, harping on every little thing like a madman with a microphone...

Motherfucker. What a country.

Regrettably yours,

BP

Next Time, on Fidget Spinner...I discussing plugging the hole in my soul with more useless garbage (hint: it doesn't really work).

re ipsa loquitor

Monday, June 26, 2017

The Little "c" (or How to Write the Best Comments Online)

Let's face it.

The Internet is full of temptation.

And when a juicy article, think-piece or facebook post happens to roll into your digital periphery, grab your ever-discerning eye and get those wheels a-spin spin spinnin', how in the world could you possibly ignore the urge to make your thoughts public?

You saw something online, and you have an "opinion" on it. Now that you've hit the "Add Comment" button, you're ready to scratch that itch and give the Internet a piece of your mind.

But how?!? Where do you start? How do you offer a reaction that is truly stunning, that captures the reader's attention and makes an impression lasting for the next 10, 20 or even 30 seconds, maybe more??

If you're struggling to really strike a chord within the online comment community, and to trigger the vitriolic animus you truly deserve, follow these 5 easy steps:

1.         Let the Headline Be Your Guide.

When you first spotted that provocative headline or catchy title scrolling past your thumb, as if to say "Hey you, dipshit! Fuck you, ya idiot!," you knew instantly how important it was to respond, and to do so before it was time to flush. You have something fresh, spicy and unrepentantly hateful to say, and you don't have much time before it escapes your mind 4ever.

When that not-so-rare opportunity arises, remember: Follow the Headline, Stupid! Wasting your time reading that ENTIRE 500 word article is exhausting, not to mention completely pointless. You won't understand it anyway! Besides. developing a well-formulated opinion based on the whole, and doing so considering the article's context, is well beyond your pay grade, particularly when you have a knee to get jerking NOW.

The Internet is about immediacy. Don't bother combing through an article that's probably loaded with flaws, bias and items that may affect or change your opinion in any way.

2.         Develop an Angle.

Before writing your reaction, ask yourself: what angle do I want to take? For instance, if the headline centers on a celebrity, it may be a good idea to skew it with an anti-Hollywood bent. Begin your next comment with "Hollywood doesn't speak for..." or "So and so has so much money/fame/bad movies, who cares what she says about ANYTHING? She should keyp her mouth SHUT!"

If the headline revolves around a celebrity of a different color than yourself, maybe try the racist approach, something you can later deny as an anti-PC snowflake-triggering event (that's right! You were planning it all along! You don't have facist tendencies after all!). This is also quite cathartic for that inner racist you just can't seem to adequately release in public!

Whatever you're angle, make sure it's somewhat controversial, distasteful and doesn't touch on anything actually discussed in the article itself. Leave the thoughtful comments to the posers. After all, you don't want to look like a know-it-all, do you, ya PUSSAGINA NERD LIBTARD SNOWFLAKE HONEYPIE SANDWICH EATER??

3.        Grammar Is For Suckers.

You're pretty sure you graduated high school, and grammar is SO beyond the pale, er uh pael, er, uh, whatever, who cares, AM I WRITE?/

You didn't need good grammar then, and you certainly don't need it now, what with the economy so great and everything. Remember, a "z" is certainly just as affective as an "ess", commas r for losers and capitalization sure didn't do you any justice back in geography class.

If you really want to get your point home, ignore all rules of written and verbal english. Those guyz are nazis anyway. No comment quite hits home as hard as that without punctuation or proper speling..

4.        Stop, Drop and Roll Wit' It.

You almost completed a book on chemical warfare once, so roll with it. Sure it was only 30 pages, was heavily illustrated and involved superhero mutants, but hey, that shit's all based on something that really happened, or COULD happen, right? It's surely enough reason to claim, irrefutably, that you "KNOW WHAT THE HELL YOU'RE TALKIN' ABOUT, OK KID?"

Expertise is for smart-asses, and it tends to only get in the way of slapdash online commenting 101. Besides, your idiotic opinion still flies with your friends, and they're smart guys who always have your back...

Roll with it. If you think you know something about something, chances are good you have something well worth it to say in the online comments section. You're an authority. You're MORE than qualified. Don't hesitate to think it out or second guess yourself.

You KNOW that the terrorists are responsible, and now it's time to edumacate the Web-o-sphere on how best to wipe them out (Hint: it doesn't require a complex, comprehensive solution at all, man).

5.        Rant Rant Rant Rant Rant Rant Rant Rant Rant   rant

Nothing is quite as easy on the eyes, or as fun to read, as an unmitigated emotional diatribe located in the reply-to-comment section just beneath Comment #4. Don't be afraid to let your brain stem take control. The half-baked, expletive-laden rant is just what you need to establish your well-deserved online superiority.

We've all been there. Some smart ass thinks he's better than you, and is testing your resolve with that latest post. Well, you DON'T have to take it!

Get out yer guns and start blazin'! That typing board ain't gonna punch itself, now is it? Whenever you feel insulted or are made to feel the least bit insecure by a capricious online headline, comment or reply, the time to act is now. Something with no commas, periods or capitalizations, around 250-300 words, should more than suffice, and will definitely go a long way towards making an attempt at saying something that probably could have been a point but will instead just reflect how desperate for attention and a hug you really are as wel as to show you may be about to snap and start throwing staplers inthe ofice someday FUCK YOU I LUV THIS CUNTRY FRIGGIN RETARDS DON KNOW HOW MUCH IM GONNA FIND EM AND SHOW EM WAT MERICAA IS ABOUTU!

The End!

Next Time, on How to Steal From Your Neighbors, we may or may not examine the hidden value of bolt-cutters.

Until then...re ipsa loquitor.

BP




Thursday, June 22, 2017

How to Make Deep Dish State Pizza

A dash of rhetoric, 5 layers of paranoia, sour grapes...all packed into pressed thin and flaky reasoning served with brute force alongside red herring and Parmesan...

A lot's been made recently of the "Deep State," the ominous, shadowy Orwellian old men-with-super-yachts club that sounds a lot like Illuminati but looks eerily close to the Federal Spy Collective...you know, the standard players of CIA, FBI. NSA and whomever else can be traced back to some sort of nation-toppling schemery or major crimes against Americans cover-up in the names of freedom, Satan and self-preservation.


On the surface, the Deep State seems to be just another concoction of rabbit hole conspiracists, cooked up by those with too much time on their hands and delivered by a half-wit demagogue with hair plugs, small hands and a Big Apple-sized inferiority complex.

On the surface, that is. Because when you think about it, how hard is it to really believe in the puppet-mastering Deep State; a group of rogue ultra-patriotic cold war throwbacks with nowhere else to go but the holes their fathers, and grandfathers, crawled into and died during the doom-and-gloom of domino-effect Pinkoism?

I'm certainly no fan of those able to catch and ride the wave of ignorance to the top of stone mountain. And the present iteration of this Deep Dish State seems to be little more than a scapegoat and distraction for someone else's failures.

I get it. You need to take the focus off the horrifying mess you've become and the country you seem to be hellbent on dragging down with you. The Deep State, a group of well-entrenched government loyalists lurking beneath the surface and suckling on the gov't teat, surely makes an easy enemy.

It's not a hard sell.

But why not? Growing up learning about the things done in the name of anti-communism, exposed to media over-exploitation and dramatization of the phenomenon (think: X-Files), the advent of the information machine (InterWeb), where even the darkest corners of theory, conspiracy and absolute rubbish are given not only new life, but perpetuity...

It's harder (at least for me) to NOT believe in such notions. In fact, it hasn't been such a long time since I last tested the waters and started drawing lines between coincidence and provable occurrence...

The underlying truth, I believe, is that while fake news and disinformation have taken on whole new lives, and that 99.9% of anything you see and hear is probably twisted 3 degrees from the truth, most of it doesn't originate in imagination land.

In an era where hyperbole is king and Bullshit is Holy Emperor, it's important to remember several things about the past:

The CIA HAS DONE very, very bad things (assassination, torture, democratically-elected official removal) in the past, and probably continues to do so. Most of them in the name of Country. Latin America and Iran can attest to this.

The NSA DOES spy on people. Innocent, guilty, brown, white, black, asian, christian, muslim, jewish, republican, democrat, man, woman and child...the NSA can probably tap into your cell phone at any time, without a warrant (a REAL warrant) or even probable cause. George W Bush and Barack Obama can attest to this (but won't).

The FBI HAS DONE bad, bad things, such as cover ups, domestic spying, blackmail, numerous other things that constitute Unconstitutional overreach, etc.

Now, I am certainly inclined to not believe a Goddamn word out of the Trumpster's mouth. Presidents lie, and it's embarrassing, but this is sort of idiotic compulsion is somewhat unprecedented.

I am also convinced, wholeheartedly, that ol' Hairplugs is nothing but a con-man. I believe a thorough examination of his real estate "career" is testament to this fact.

And, most importantly, I do believe he would do anything to win. ANYTHING. He can't help it, He's an insecure child. He cares not for the country, voters or the long-dead democratic ideal. He's a huckster who has to get his piece, no matter what (eh, comrade?). He is EGO.

Unfortunately, though, the unfettered bloviating about the Deep State, no matter how misguided or self-centered, does play, and it plays well. After all, it doesn't take much to stoke mistrust and fear of government types, when everyone kinda sorta doesn't trust those types anyway.

What's perhaps most perplexing about the whole Deep State is the trust in it, particularly by those who would otherwise see it burned to the ground for assorted, atrocities of the past (real and assumed).

Pick and choose. Win and lose. You win, you win BIG. You lose, you suspend all past feelings of sincere and justifiable doubt for the convenience of an excuse.

I'm not saying the whole Russian thing didn't happen, and that collusion isn't most likely a real scandal...In fact, I'm inclined to believe smoke doesn't appear where there's no fire, and Trump and his cohorts are indeed the biggest collection of proven criminals and liars and fraudsters this side of Nixon (not yet convicted).

And I certainly would never put it past Putin, a known crusher of dissent and enemies and anything and everything that presents the slightest glimmer of hope for his country and his people...

But the incredible and immediate suspension of long-held disbelief when it comes to supposed elements of the Deep State, that very thing that doubters blamed for the Kennedys and MLK and the drug war and numerous international assassinations over the past 50 or so years, has me literally and figuratively scratching my head.

"You mean, the CIA, aka Dulles, had Kennedy shot, and has spent the last 60 plus years lying and covering it up, making half of Congress and untold other government wonks complicit in their lie the whole time...then lied about WMD in Iraq to feed the oil barons by faking evidence, then covered THAT up, making countless others complicit in the lie throughout the process...but, now, are to be trusted about Russian election interference and collusion? When did the lying actually stop?"

When did the Intelligence community become Super Trusty Boy Scoutee Americanos (TM)?

Again, I'm not saying there was no collusion. After all, it's an intriguing series of unfathomable and improbable coincidences that seems to receive a little bit of evidentiary support (superficially, at least), on a daily basis. The stink is building, and the growing stench seems to emanate from the direction of Team Enormous Winner.

But though it's not always healthy, maybe all that previous skepticism regarding the Deep State for the past half century shouldn't be summarily dropped, forgotten or dismissed. Maybe a little honest= self-examination and dissection of the cognitive dissonance we're experiencing, that which many accuse the Red-faced Baboon's followers of having, is in order here.

Or maybe I should just shut the fuck up and carve out a big steaming pile of 5-layer paranoia.

Good day, fellow Screw Jacks.


BP

Next Up...I examine what happens when Skulduggery goes too far...









Tuesday, June 13, 2017

Stuck in Truck Country (or 10 Secrets to a Great Looking Prostate)

A sleepless night on Cul-de-Sac Independence; wandering aimlessly through the house for a spot to sink into...crash landing instead on the guest room futon.

A truck rumbles into action. A big one. Coming to life and growling for prey at 12:30 in the morning. Idles like a nightmare, like a relentlessly spinning steel trap gnashing its teeth and nipping at your ankles for dream-time eternity.

Shit.

The metal monster, a red-and-black Dodge pickup with giant chrome pipes and over-sized American flags donning each corner of its bed, sits and rumbles and idles idles idles. The cheap single-pane window in the bedroom rattles with every chug-a-chug. The floor trembles beneath.

I just wanted to sleep.

This is not uncommon or unexpected in any way. This scene takes place every night, around the same time, and with no real rhyme or reason, other than to remind everyone that it won't be stopped anytime soon.

The cul-de-sac can often be mistaken for a a makeshift Diesel exhibition, complete with trucker caps, exhaust billow demonstrations and games of patriotic one-ups-man-ship...wallet-chains and chrome polish for the kids!

 Come One, Come All! Saturday Saturday Saturday!

Yep, this is Truck Country. Smack-dab plum-in-the-middle-of-Murica Truck Country, where resentment's just a way of life and everyone's ready to pop on a moment's notice.

The tension is palpable.

Everyday, as I wind my way through the meandering stream of suburbia, I pass by what must be 15 or 20 of these behemoths, all decorated in sharp, contrasting paints and decked out with over-sized chrome implements, back windows clad with bone-filled grenade stickers; all ready to pounce on the next motorist who happens to pass by and blink at exactly the wrong time.

Behind the wheels of these monsters sits flesh-covered lumps of bottled-up rage; bitter, solidified pillars of piss borne from years of repressed emotion and continual disappointment (I'm spit-balling). Forever seeking an outlet (or perhaps an excuse), these pent-up pioneers of passionless ire (what?) keep ever-paranoid eyeballs ever-employed, constantly swiveling and searching for 'violators'; those unfortunate souls who appear threatening, or who are, at the very least, simply crying out for a good 'throttling' from those with nothing but time on their hands and insecurity in their hearts...

Rage is thick in the burbs. So thick, in fact, that it's often impossible to navigate around it in any meaningful way. Not uncommon is the moment when avoidance is impossible, when you must walk into the grocery store and through the fog, feel it penetrating and passing through your being, and come out trying not to feel a little heavier, sadder and coarser than you were before.

I have always been somewhat of an angry lad, as long-time friends and family can perhaps attest. Yet, for the most part, I've been able to brush much of my anger off into the dirt, or to channel it into something useful.

Eventually, I saw an opening, and seized a little light. Existence became somewhat bearable again.

For many here in the burbs, however, it seems that anger was never channeled, never mitigated, never relegated to a more functional or useful role as 'part 'of the larger personality. Rather, it spread from the head and heart on down, eventually occupying the whole. All that rage is now personified, embodied as displaced, over-worn souls always hunting for a place to grit their teeth and explode.

Casualties of Rage, holed up in houses and home depots and dealerships, constructing chromed-up Chrysler-brand tanks and preparing for wars being waged between their ears. Mercenaries without suitors, those seeking vengeance and death in all the wrong things; happily hating all the wrong people...

Saddle up. This is Truck Country.

re ipsa loquitor

BP

Next up--A Post That Makes Sense!







Thursday, June 8, 2017

Ten Things Everyone Should Know About Heroin Nonfiction

A small pile of nonfiction short stories lie neglected in my office, each bound in photocopies of old magazine covers a bit frayed around the edges. Each time I feel the urge to pour through one, an act which should take no longer than 5-7.5 minutes, I get distracted or lose interest.

So it goes, I guess.

Seemingly composed under the influence of various unnamed substances, these pieces supposedly provide first-person accounts of the author's sexual exploits in somewhat morbid detail, along with the general malaise, ennui or depressive state that often follows the consumption of various unnamed substances.

Maybe I should take a look. Probably not today.

Being as it's 2017, these stories are now more than a decade old. That makes me feel old. Not only that, but they were written by someone I believe has ceased to be. That someone, an old acquaintance I can barely picture at this point, was fighting a constant battle with addiction to various unnamed substances.

I probably made the mistake of revealing that information earlier in the post. Accidental foreshadowing, I believe they call it.

They don't call it anything.

I have taken peeks here and there at the writing. Not much, but long enough to know the author had a good grasp for style and storytelling. I tell myself I'm going to thumb through one of them the next time I add more material to my novel, but that must be a lie, because as far as I can tell, I haven't done shit in that direction.

Goes it so, guess I.

I think about this small pile of nonfiction decorating my desk often. I don't really know why. Perhaps it's because I often wonder what the world would look like with a bit more glaze. My perspective is already skewed, but sometimes I think it doesn't have enough of a tint to it. I don't know. Perhaps a softening, brownish lens is needed to see things with a bit more honesty; a bit more yellow or brown melted over the scape...just enough to give reality that reservoir-ish hue. Things could stand to appear a bit murkier, darker, tinted, uninviting

It would better match the inside.

The Heroin Nonfiction on my desk requires some attention. It's not really asking for it. It never ASKS for it. But it murmurs a constant and frightening message that seems to know not gravity, nor to recognize boundaries of door and wall.

I thought about thumbing through it today. But I lost interest.

Maybe tomorrow. Probably not today.

re ipsa loquitor

BP

Next Time, I provide an enthralling account of life and times as a Commuter in Truck Country. You don't want to miss it.







Saturday, June 3, 2017

I Can FEEL Your Anger (or 3 Simple Steps for Getting the Sexiest Abs This Summer)

I started this blog to take a cheeky and somewhat sublime look at the surreal, and with the limited number of posts I've added so far, it seems that I've more-or-less been sticking to its original intent.

After all, such confounding real-life occurrences, such as the sudden proliferation of red baseball caps and the discovery of gravitational "ripples" in the fabric of space-time, do indeed warrant a bit of levity, particularly if we plan on coming out of this age alive...

But I thought I might veer away from the formula for a second (time's up!) and do my best to examine a "serious" topic in a little more depth...that of the monkey who never quite leaves your back (unless you therapy the shit out of it)...drumroll please...A. N. G. E. R.

Anger.

ANGER.

ANGER!

F*%#ing ANGER you F*%#ing F*%#!!! JESUS F*%#ing Chriminee!!!!!!?!

Okay, enough of that. This post is about anger, using my own to illustrate.

I know, I know. NO one in the history of humankind has ever dared down this fraught-with-peril path. I mean, who do you know has ever taken a look anger, its causes, its effects, its place, its power, etc?

But seriously, for a second.

People bury it. People ignore it. People rely on it. Some people carry it in reserve. Others piggyback on it in order to inflict great pain.

It's often misplaced, often misused, many times misunderstood.

Yet no matter how enigmatic and misaligned this emotion tends to be, no matter how many times it tends to be overlooked or discarded or ignored, it comes back. Or, it never leaves in the first place. It hides and waits for the right time to kill.

I have struggled mightily with anger throughout my life. I've held onto it too long. I've released it too late. I've relieved it too fast, too openly, too hurtfully.

Anger has been a large source of regret in my life. That's not to say that each angry experience has been a source of regret; only that I've often woken up the next day, or walked away from the release, only to find myself more angry at myself for being too angry, or something.

I've always had a complex relationship with anger, as I'm sure any human being that's ever had a pulse can attest to or sympathize with on some level.

It's been my best friend and my worst enemy.

At times, anger, RIGHTEOUS anger, can shield me from awkwardness and carry me through difficulty. If I ever need to put up some defenses, to protect my ego or my intellect or my fragile whatever, I simply press the button and open the floodgates of rage. Suddenly, I'm on top of the situation again.

At other times, anger is the very source of awkwardness and difficulty. It makes a challenging situation worse, exacerbates the problem, lends credence to my enemies, both real and perceived.

Guess which scenario occurs most often?

This dual role is perhaps best understood for what it conveniently omits. The Why? (source) of the anger. regardless of where and when it makes itself present, is never put forth, never answered. Sure, there are clues, but these amount to bread crumbs that tend trail off into circle-jerk Quest territory.

And when things get too labyrinthine, I tend to lose patience and back away...slowly, of course.

When I was young, say 10-12, the frustrations began to pile on. When puberty hit, frustration piled on frustration, feasted on hormone and spit me out in high school. By that time, self-doubt wasn't just a lingering cloud; it was etched into my skin. Deep.

Needless to say, I became angry. And though I largely held it in, which seemed to eat away mercilessly at my insides, a piece of it always rode along on my shoulder. At all times.

Of course, I couldn't express it openly or in any sort of logical fashion. The perception was that its release was dangerous and potentially damaging to the few friendships I was in constant fear of losing a grip on, particularly at the time.

My anger became so thick, so all-consuming, it began to dominate my personality, my presence and my aura. In other words, it not only added to the problem, it became the problem.

And while I would blame my "situation" on others, on my peers, my parents, my school, society, etc., the brunt of my most brutal finger-pointing was myself. There was no stop to the number or severity of psychological beatings I would self-administer.

Why this is exactly I don't rightly know. I have my theories, but those would be a digression. The real focus at-hand is the anger that not only dominated my "previous" life (so-called youth), but that continues to remain an undercurrent beneath nearly everything I do to this day.

On some level, it's always there.

It's always festering beneath the surface: a hot, bubbling stream of anger; a steady current of rage that can be tapped into at any moment of weakness, pressure or threat of stress. And though it ebbs and flows, it never really disappears from view.

That's not to say I'm planning on acting on my anger. The same self-analysis that has allowed me to dissect and mitigate my anger before is still there, and promises to be for quite some time. Only when I'm senile do I suggest more stringent and dedicated adult supervision (kidding)...

I do believe, however, that suppressing such an emotion, or pretending it's gone away simply because of a change in station or life situation, or because you're happier "at the moment", is not a good thing.

Acknowledging that your anger still exists is, I believe, the only real way to cope with and understand it, lest it consume you once again in the future.

Nonsensical venting over.

re ipsa loquitor,

BP

Next Time--A lighter subject, anything at all; probably something to do with Russian collusion and the death of democracy.

Ciao