Concussed and cussing

Where do I start? Life’s been in full swing.

Let’s begin with the throbbing in my head. It’s always fun detailing the exploits that have landed me in whatever predicament I’m in that I’ve found necessary to write (rant) about.

Yesterday, with some time to kill at my desk, I threw on some lectures I found on YouTube. The subject matter: string theory. I first watched one concentrating on the theory of relativity presented by physicist, Leonard Susskind, a professor at Stanford University.

I had already danced with quadratic equations in attempting to solve for phi.

There’s a reason I’ve never achieved anything beyond the prestigious title of Office Manager.



Fuck. That. Noise.

Still, the cosmos fascinate me. Always have. I won’t pretend to understand all of it, or even most of it. The fundamentals are there for me though. It’s that damn math that’s sketchy. Shady AF, I say.

Anything that pops up everywhere is definitely criminal. I don’t trust math. Math is a part of everything. Fucking everything! The only thing more prolific than math is the Koch brothers ISAOA ATIMA.

All of this to say, I was having a good day. I was feelin’ alright.

I went home after work and hit the gym.

I didn’t want to go. I didn’t feel up to it really. The day prior I thought it would be neat to see if I could still do all the leg machines. All of them. Same day. All. Of. Them.

As an alcoholic, I can never do anything halfway, or a reasonable amount then stop. I need to beat it to death. It might not even be an alcoholic trait; I might just be an asshole.

Whatever the reasoning or lack of logic, after that workout I was bracing myself against the wall and lowering myself slowly onto the toilet to pee. I didn’t feel up to a 4 mile run. I was graduating from asshole to colossal fuckwit.

Post workout, I cried taking each stair up to my apartment. The Lobster, like a drill instructor behind me yelling, “Double-time, come one. Let’s move!” I slow-motion uppercut punched him, then kicked him in the chest. I did an amazing leap into the air, spiraling tightly – landing squarely on his chest at the bottom of the stairs.

This was all in my head, of course. What I actually said was, “Can you not right now?” But, for a brief moment I was a Street Fighter character and I was whooping his ass.

I said we’d start with my head, didn’t I? I lied. I’m sorry. I’m a liar now. I led you to believe we’d lead with my head and instead I fed you cosmos bullshit, then told you about my aching legs and how I’m in so much pain I contemplated purchasing a toilet seat riser.

You can stop me when you’ve had too much. What? I’m sorry, I can’t hear you, you’ll have to speak up, ya damn pussy.

Fine, I’ll shove along.

The Lobster’s in the shower now. It’s post workout and we’re getting ready to make dinner. I’m tidying up the kitchen.

I’m anal retentive and can’t begin a task without first clearing away any clutter.

To be fair, I’m essentially a control freak. I would have done this under any circumstance. Clutter drives me fucking nuts. I throw away or donate perfectly good shit because I can’t stand it occupying my space in the “wrong” way. Don’t ask me to delineate “wrong.” It just is. The same way that someone breathes in a manner that’s wrong, some shit in my house is just wrong. Call it Feng Shui; it’s all fucking feng’d off.

There’s a diagnosable neurosis for this, I’m sure of it. There’s probably medicine too. I’m not sure OCD fits. Whatever the antithesis of a hoarding disorder is; I’m that. It’s real and it makes people miserable.

Clearing up the last of the clutter, I grab the blender. This would prove to be my demise.

I’ve mentioned before how I can be exceptionally lazy at times. I call it, being “unconcerned with the details” or “action passive.”

I eyed the location where I intended to place the blender. I glanced back down at my hands holding the device, studying it. I contemplated; scrutinized the distance from my feet to the intended shelf, bullshit quadratic formulas clouding my focus.

I peered into the open pantry closet before me. I dutifully acknowledged the lonely step-stool sitting there, whispering to me, “Use me, I’m your bitch.”

Nah, I got this.

And just like that, I was on my tiptoes like a toddler reaching for cookies on the counter. This was not going to end well.

To my own surprise I managed to get the hefty unit onto the shelf. Without too much strain I hoisted that Ninja bastard up there. I tucked it next to the Crock Pot and was just preparing my victory lap around the kitchen island when reality bitch slapped me.

I turned around to find, sitting behind me on the counter, one of its components.

I had forgotten to insert the deadly rotating blade before putting away the machine. For a moment I thought about passive action. Could I just stick this pinwheel of death up there on the shelf by itself? If I open the cabinet is this fucker going to tumble out and ninja star my big toe off?

It was evident I’d need to employ maximum effort. I’d have to pull that thing back down and put the finger-saw safely inside the jar.

Back up on my toes, I reached for the base of the blender. I grabbed at it, tugging softly. The rubber stoppers on the bottom resisted the wooden surface of my cabinetry. Suddenly top heavy, I watched in horrifically slow motion as the blender jar dislodged from the motor base and did three twists and two flips before landing on my head.

I think my Ninja may have had Simone Biles beat by a matter of hours.

Today, my legs are still fucking wrecked. My head has a sizable lump on it. I’m still pissed off that I don’t comprehend math the way that I’d like to. In fact, I’m really pissed no one ever said, “Pay attention, you’ll need to know this later in life.” I mean, what would my comeback have been? “When am I ever going to need to know or use that kind of math?”

Bullshit!

Listen, science is fucking amazing! Math is legit everywhere. It is, in my opinion, proof that God and science are not mutually exclusive. If God created all things, then isn’t it fascinating that math is the constant pulse or undercurrent in all things?

Really wish someone would have stressed the fucking importance.

Maybe, instead of watching old men lecture on force and mass acceleration, or quarks and mathematical framework, I should pay more attention to the simple stuff – like not injuring myself during menial tasks. It’s just a thought.

10 thoughts on “Concussed and cussing

  1. As I imagined you staring at the blender, I kept thinking of that video where a cat is obviously gearing up for a jump and as it sat there eyeballing it, someone edited in a bunch of formulas and geometric figures.

    I’m in awe of math — I can’t do it and had to cheat to get through geometry in high school — but I wish I didn’t suck at it.

    Liked by 1 person

  2. “As an alcoholic, I can never do anything halfway, or a reasonable amount then stop. I need to beat it to death. It might not even be an alcoholic trait; I might just be an asshole.”
    This made me laugh out loud. I even read it to my daughter and she laughed too. I love self deprecating humour… Loved this.

    Like

      1. Hal! It’s excellent. I’m so sick of the schmaltzy shit poetry and cryptic piss-prose. I’ve been looking for someone just. like. you.

        Like

      2. Definitely NOT creeped out. I’ve already read some of yours too and am delighted to make your acquaintance. Welcome to my blog full of random shit. I go deep sometimes but eventually I piss myself off. Looking forward to reading more of yours (in UK where it’s ridiculously late).

        Like

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