Life sucks occassionally

I can find the humor in most things, but sometimes there's really nothing to laugh at -- and when that happens I'm screwed; when all I can do is cry.

I hate crying almost as much as I hate being naked -- it makes sense if crying is the emotional equivalent to being naked. (And I suppose naked people crying are funny, so at least I'm making progress.) But seriously, I'm in no mood to laugh.

Therefore ...

I sat down to write, and I won't stop writing until the led in my chest wanders to some other part of my body and poisons me slowly, but -- I'm going for random here -- the led is figurative and won't actually kill me, which should be a good thing, but today I don't care.

Writing through grief is a bitch -- it's not productive like rage or happiness or even mania. Grief is mind numbing and slothish, and it wears you out. I advised a depressed friend once to throw her shoes at people and kick them until they cried -- I'm not wearing shoes, and even if I was; my kids are the only people here to throw them at, and kicking children is frowned upon by the homeowners' association.

Risk everything

They say that alcoholics and drug addicts and adrenaline junkies are merely self medicating. Writing for me -- I'm no Hunter S. Thompson -- is challenging under the influence, but ill-conceived adventures are loaded with literary potential.

I hop in a car with friends Jack and Chrissy and drive around Tacoma's industrial district in search of a bar that's shaped like a coffee pot.

None of us know Tacoma that well so we stop at one of those sexpresso stands -- it's located conveniently next to a no-tell motel and bus stop inhabited by a grumpy-looking prostitute. We wait several minutes for the topless barista to pop her head out of the window, but she never comes -- she's probably busy with the owner of the pickup truck parked haphazardly on the curb.

We stop next at a gas station where a toothless drunk man with long hair and a duffle bag is shouting at Jack -- we can't understand most of what he says, but there are definitely references to fetal alcohol syndrome and tennis shoes. Jack heads into the store and returns minutes later with a satisfied grin. We're following a locksmith he met inside.

"The guy lives next door to the place," Jack says with a fist pump. "There still are decent people in the world."

I'm not sure this locksmith fellow is all that decent. We're following his Kia Optima up hills, down hills, left and right through empty neighborhoods and tagged up warehouse parks. I'm pretty sure the guy is leading us to his garage where his buddies are waiting -- like the truckers from that Breakdown movie with Kurt Russell and Kathleen Quinlan. 

"We're in a car," Chrissy says. "He can't do anything to us in here. We'd drive away."

"What if it's an ambush, and a second car drives up behind us?" I ask. "They'll shoot our tires out and then they'll chop us up and steal our stuff."

The guy slams on his brakes alongside a vacant-looking building -- "Superior SAW," the sign reads.

"I told you he'd kill us ..."

Finally, serenity

When I can't find something to laugh about or write about I look again -- I look until I find it. I can't fix people's broken hearts, or recover their losses, or bring them back from the dead -- I can't control the mechanism that delivers grief to our doorsteps. I can write and laugh and sleep.

Good night.

* In case you're wondering about the picture up top of the guy in the cut-off shorts -- He's a Never Nude.