God, sometimes life just likes to fuck you in the ass, doesn’t it? Seriously, sometimes it feels like life goes, “Oh hey, I know right now is a little inconvenient… like you got a lot going on… but I’m going to need you to bend you over so I can give you the hardest rectal pounding I can.” At least that’s how I feel this conversation would go if life could talk. Though I didn’t plan on having a schedule to post, I did want to at least have time to write my mind weekly… well, I missed that mark, didn’t I?
So what got me this time? Well, I’m in a relationship, have been for about 3 years now. No, I’m not going into a telenovela saga, so don’t get a hard on for some drama. My partner (of the female nature, sorry boys and lady boys if you’re reading this, this asshole is an exit only zone) has cirrhosis, not the “I drank my liver to death” type, more the “life decided to add another avenue of death because why not” type. At least if you have the drinking type, you possibly had a lot of fun leading up to it, or a shit ton of depression; who am I to judge? Anyway, long story short, she’s on the transplant list, but in the meantime, we get to have fun with all the complications of a failing liver. So that’s what life used to give me its obligatory rectal exam—not so fun and a shit bit stressful.
It really does suck watching someone you love struggle so much, physically obviously, but mentally too. Fighting demons on both ends of the spectrum, and all you can do is sit back and do your best to “be there” for them. All while a toddler runs along doing toddler shit, just adds the lube to the pounding. It’s okay though, we’re all okay. If you’re not familiar with cirrhosis, which I wasn’t until I met her, the side effects when you finally get bad enough to “qualify” to be listed is rough to say the least. Yeah, sure, there’s all the physical stuff, aka your body killing you a little faster; however, what they don’t mention is the mental stuff. Now I’m not just talking about mental health like I was referencing to earlier, I’m talking full-blown cognitive issues. I’m not going to go into all the hokus pokus on cirrhosis; frankly, I’m completely and utterly exhausted from said hokus pokus. I will tell you that end stage can turn you into a full-blown dementia patient. You don’t know where you are, what day it is, or what the fuck you’re actually doing. If your meds aren’t working, the individual is just lost, and I mean lost. Sometimes to the point doctors have you restrained to the bed because you’re a danger to yourself in that confused state; it’s scary to watch.
Now this isn’t going to be a boohoo poor me rant; I’m not obligated to stay, I want to stay. Love is a silly little feeling that is stupidly powerful, isn’t it? So I stay, I stay and watch her physically and mentally decline, and frankly, it gets fucking terrifying. This isn’t going to be a feelings circle where we pass the little shit stick that gives you “permission” to express your most sensitive feelings, and some chick with blue hair tells you how strong you are that you told the old guy you’re a they/them, or whatever the fuck. I’m not a fucking pansy now. That being said, I’m not scared to admit when I’m scared… I mean, I was Airborne in the Army and scared of heights; being scared doesn’t mean you can’t do something. All it means is you acknowledge you’re being a pussy in the moment, but ya go ahead and do what you gotta do anyway. In the Army, that was chucking myself out the side of a C-17 at 12-1500 feet, and here it’s admitting that this situation makes me have all sorts of feelings, but I gotta keep trudging anyway. So that was my dick down this past month and honestly one of many reasons I created this blog that no one will ever read. This is my figurative pillow for me to scream into when I feel the need.
So anyhoo… that’s how life is giving me my non-consensual rectal exam this time. It’ll be something else next time, or maybe a combination of all the things, but that’s how it goes; we all got shit to deal with whether we like it or not. How do I cope with all this, you may wonder? I spend money I don’t have, of course… and what do I spend it on, you may ask? I spend it on fucking freedom launchers, of course, aka guns. Honestly, I spend it on anything that can turn a little piece of lead, copper, or whatever your preferred periodic table element that you’d like to see get launched by a little explosion initiated by your finger to then fling it usually somewhere in the ballpark of 2800fps in a single direction at whatever your chosen destination is. So anything that can do that, that’s where my money goes. It makes me warm and tingly inside. It’s an expensive hobby/obsession, so if anyone reading this would like to start a GoFundMe for me to support my Freedom Launching passion, I, my dear sir, would not object. Simply for the fact that it serves as some sort of therapy but with freedom sprinkles mixed in. Thus making it freedom therapy, or that’s what I choose to see it as.
Well, that’s all I got for this scream into the void adventure. Hopefully, I can post something more fun next time; maybe I’ll review products or some shit. I obsessively research bigger purchases before I make them, so maybe I can save someone some Google insanity research and just lay it out here. I might open a Shopify and sell some “merch” and see what happens; I could use the funds to feed my hobby, life, and my dying little cirrhosis baby I got over here. She likes throwing lead at 2800fps too, and since I take care of her every waking moment of my life, she never complains when I spend too much money on freedom launchers and related items. Call it a “perk” if you want of being a loving caretaker; frankly, I’d buy all this shit even if she did bitch at me because you can never have too much freedom in your life. It’s just nice that she doesn’t. It’s even nicer when she says I should keep doing it to save my sanity, so there’s that. Anyway, thanks for reading my brain rot. I need to sleep… which will more likely be me shopping gun accessories till I pass the fuck out, but same difference, right? Anyway, have a blessed weekend, you fuckers and fuckettes.
The Nandi Bear