Maybe.  It’s a nice thought and one I’d like to believe. I don’t want the guy who is supposed to make me feel better also simultaneously jacking me up for his own, personal gain. I want to believe my doctor is just another hapless victim of the corruption of greed.

But here’s the thing: I find it hard to believe that doctors are unable to do anything about it. If they are truly that outraged, I don’t understand why things don’t change. I fully admit there’s a lot I don’t understand and I could be missing something really obvious, but if I am, feel free to set me straight. I don’t get it. The whole thing hinges on doctors. If doctors won’t give the diagnosis or prescribe the pill or order the x-ray — then everything stops. Does it not? If they refuse to cooperate until insurance companies start playing fair then wouldn’t the insurance companies at least have to make a half-assed attempt at being decent? As it is now they are just brazenly bending us over and sticking it up our backsides. They’re not even sorry. They don’t even have the decency to look away while they do it.

So, I entreat Dr. Fischer: prove it. Put your collective money where your mouth is. If you and your medical brethren are so outraged about the way things are going in the insurance industry then fight back. Help us. We can’t do it on our own. What are you doing to fix it?

Oh seriously? They’re sorry? For what? Is this how stupid we’ve become? Ever see that movie Idiocracy? No? Watch it. No, no, go ahead. I’ll wait here while you drive to the rental store, rent it, drive back and watch it then report to me here.

I KNOW, RIGHT!?

I’m afraid we’re already there. : /

I used to have a really difficult time reading the paper. Not because I’m illiterate but because I simply couldn’t handle the bad news. My bleeding heart was such a pansy liberal back then! Remember the time when I said, “Aw. Poor Lions” at the MGM Casino in Vegas and you all laughed at me and said, “Oh yeah, poor lions. Wish my biggest problems involved laying around scratching my ass all day with nothing else to do but eat, fuck, and sleep!” ??

Remember that?

And then you threw your heads back and collectively laughed at the stupid frivolity of such a statement and I laughed too, but deep down, I still kinda felt bad for the lions. Cause being behind glass all day, never seeing anything new or even feeling the soft sunlight, the fresh night air —nothing but tourist after tourist day in and day out. Drunken fights. Shady drug deals. Vomit on the carpet and the desperation of Sin City permeating everything in sight— I dunno. That kinda seems like a bullshit existence to me. Free food and fucking notwithstanding.

I keep losing track, I’m sorry. I’ll try to get to the point.The point is, Daniel used to tell me I wasn’t allowed to read the paper or listen to the news. He had come home one too many times to me sitting on the floor with a wad of used Kleenex tossed all around me, my eyes swollen shut to nothing more than mere slits from bawling like an idiot. An actual idiot. Someone soft in the head. Through heaving sobs and hysterical, nonsensical ramblings he would piece together that I had seen some tragic bit of drama play itself out on the evening news. There’s never any shortage, is there?

Man. This is a crazy world we live in.

So enough of those little experiences and we quickly agreed it was in everyone’s best interest that I not expose myself to that kind of emotional turmoil. Clearly I was brain damaged and unable to process and detach myself from sad news items.

I wish I could say I am exaggerating. But I’m not. I would hear stories about kids being kidnapped and I would obsess about it, day after day. I would hold my breath, so to speak, until the word finally came. And the word was never “found” but only always “dead” and it was doing my head in. I couldn’t follow it anymore. I couldn’t keep doing that to myself. It was a real and true version of self-imposed hell on earth.

We made the deal and I refrained from clicking the links, tuning in or, basically, paying attention. I would of course occasionally stumble on some sad bit of news, but had become fairly adept at diversionary tactics. Sometimes it was something so silly as running around the house in circles chanting something stupid to myself until I had forgotten the offending story.

Yeah. I know. I can’t believe I made it to adulthood on my own either.

One of the stories that made it through my defenses was a particularly gnarly one. Do you remember the story about the Russian submarine, Kursk? They sailed out to sea to test some torpedoes, had an explosion on board and then sank and then died. All of them.

Man, it was everywhere. They had it on all the networks and I couldn’t avoid it, no matter where I looked it was there. I couldn’t stand it. I’d try to keep it together and things would get quiet for one minute and I would think about those men down there and knowing they were never going to come up again and their families sitting at home, watching it all unfold on television and knowing they were never going to see their father/brother/son/lover alive again. And nothing could be done. Nothing, nothing.

That was the hardest part of it for me, thinking about that. It’s always okay, as long as there is still something to be done– as long as all possible avenues haven’t yet been exhausted. It’s when there is nothing left to try that it kills me. Giving up is not something I can do easily. Even when it might be the best thing for me.

Daniel, of course, had to pick up the pieces again. But I don’t want you to think he was a dick about it. He wasn’t. He was actually very kind and gentle and he made me feel like I was perfectly sane, even though we both knew that ship had long since sailed. Is anyone sane at 23, 24? Sanity is on vacation throughout much of a person’s twenties.

He would “Aw, baby” me while I cried on his shoulder and he would try so hard not to let me see that he was laughing. There was this one headline, it read, “118 Men, Dead at the bottom of the Sea” I saw it on the front page of some newspaper and I repeated it to him while sobbing uncontrollably. Of course he couldn’t figure out what the hell I was trying to say so I had to keep repeating it over and over again until it became some form of perverse self-flagellation that made zero sense to me — then or now. Each pathetic attempt at spitting out the headline only made me cry harder and try as he might, he couldn’t help but laugh. And each time he laughed I would get mad and indignant and I would try to say it again…convinced if he could just hear the whole thing he would see the tragedy of the situation and he, too, would burst into tears and weep for a weary world and all her troubles.

Good hell. I’m exhausted just typing about it. No wonder we didn’t make it. That is just too much work for ANYBODY.

From then on, if he was feeling frisky and a touch sadistic all he had to do was look at me with a faux look of sincerity and say, “118 Men — Dead. At the bottom of the sea.” And I would lose it. I would just lose my shit and he would nearly fall over laughing and I would lash out at him for being such a cruel asshole. And those men. Ah, God those poor men!

Ah, those were the days.

So, this is happening:
(photo credit)

It’s gettin’ real in the middle east right about now. And it’s all very well and good to hold your head under the sand if you need it to just get by. But maybe it’s not such a good idea to stay down there for quite so long. It’s important to pay attention. History is being made all around us. Important things are happening. Idealist hippie or not, people are in harm’s way and fed up and ready to fight their way out. I am scared for them. And I am scared for me. I am scared for all of us. And yeah, a little sad, too. I had such high hopes for our lot.

I don’t pretend to know all the details. I’ve been refusing to pay attention for so long now. But I’m reading up on it. And it’s interesting to me how this thing is playing out on Facebook and Twitter. The revolution may not be televised, but it is certainly being socially networked. This minute-by-minute update by the Guardian makes for some fascinating reading. Between YouTube uploads and Twitter feeds, it’s really and truly amazing if you really and truly make yourself stop a minute and think about it. Think about it though it hurts and is scary. Cause eventually everybody has to grow up and stop being 23 and scared of feelings that seem too big to feel.

@mfatta7 Tear gas
@mfatta7 I’m suffocating
@mfatta7 We r trapped inside a building
@mfatta7 Armored vehicles outside
@mfatta7 Help we r suffocating
@mfatta7 I will be arrested
@mfatta7 Help !!!
@mfatta7 Arrested
@mfatta7 Ikve been beaten alot

Meanwhile, in America, Idol is just revving back up and Oprah is getting ready to tell us what to buy next.

118 Men, Dead at the Bottom of the Sea.

I hate it when there’s a blog I really like to read and I go there on a regular basis and then one day I go there and they’ve been noticed. Maybe it’s media attention. Maybe it’s Reddit or Digg or whatever. The point is, they get popular and then they get bought and then they suck.

Every time I go there now there’s ads all over the place, they’ve changed the look to make it more sterile and boring, they completely stop swearing and most of their blog posts are blatant sales pitches.

Gah. That sucks so hard! Stop doing that, internet!

My second thought was, “Wait. Just who wins these things??”

Nearly every product out there has these marketing schemes, from cars to candy bars. Win a thousand dollars a week for life if you buy Coke. Win a new Mustang if you buy a carrot. Eat at Joe’s and win a free liposuction. As far as marketing potential goes, I get it.

But who the hell wins all these contests? I’ve never once seen any follow up on it. Have you ever looked in the paper to see “Local man wins twenty million and an Asian bride for opening Pepsi can”? Have you ever actually known anyone who has won one of these contests? I haven’t.

“Hey, that’s a cool Rolex.”

“Yeah, it’s pretty sweet. I got it out of a box of Cheerios.”

That’s never once happened to me. Not even a little bit. What does this mean? Does it mean these contests are all scams? Is anyone keeping track? What if they’re all LYING to us — a strange thought for a greedy marketing department, I know — and we just keep buying all this shit because we think we might actually win something?

Think about it. Have you ever bought one product over another because of the allure of a million dollars, or maybe even just a pair of movie tickets? I mean, all things being equal – price, taste, convenience, whatever – if you were indifferent to it all,  wouldn’t you pick the product with the promotion? I would think so. Human nature seems to suggest so.

If they aren’t lying and they are actually awarding all these fabulous prizes, where are the winners? Do they have to go into hiding? Do they have to sign confidentiality clauses stating they will never speak of their winnings? If so, wouldn’t their friends, neighbors and family get suspicious? Wouldn’t they be all like, “Hey, where did you get the money for that giant mansion and Rolls Royce in your driveway? You work at Sonic Burger.” ?? Wouldn’t it get out somehow?

And that doesn’t make sense anyway because why would a marketing company DO that? They wouldn’t. They would want to get every inch of mileage out of the promotion before having to pay for another one. They would not shut up about it before, during, or after.

“We’re Twix! We’re made of chocolate and caramel! We awarded a 15 year old girl a new Ford Taurus twenty years ago!”

Seriously. They would exploit that shit.

So, I’m asking you? Who the hell ever wins $10,000 and a trip to Vegas from a candy bar?

And I respond thusly, “Pfffffthhh.”

Vegas isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. It’s loud and dirty and crowded and people act like they are the only living thing on the planet and woe be unto you if you get in their way or impede their desires in even the most minute way. I’ve seen multiple car accidents and one pedestrian struck by a car. The other cars were honking – HONKING – at this man who was fallen in the crosswalk. How dare he not to continue to walk right on out of their way after being struck in a crosswalk? How dare he stand in their way? He should have crawled on hands and knees the rest of the way through the crosswalk, so as to not delay them even one minute. I despair for the human race, I tell you. My fingers to God’s ears, we’re a sorry lot sometimes.

The stench of cigarettes, booze and desperation hangs thick in the air. The con artists and smut peddlers are out in full force. It is most definitely a modern day Sodom and Gomorrah. Brimstone. Sulfur. Burning. Ash. What’s NOT to envy?

But it’s a living and it was only a week and  I get to leave Sunday. So I won’t complain about that anymore.

Instead, I’ll show you this article entitled The Art of Giving Up by Dyske Suematsu because it’s a good article and you should read it and then tell me what you think.

Thank you and I hope you are well and good night. Be home soon!

It’s eight o clock and I’m just waiting for bedtime. It’s the highlight of my evening. I’m like, DYING for bedtime. Come oooon bedtime! Let’s go!

It’s not been a good day, but I’ve resolved to pick myself up by my big girl panties and deal with it. Whining and pouting like a simpering, spoiled nitwit isn’t going to help anything. Well, okay, it does make me feel a little better to hide in the closet and have myself a good cry, but only to an extent. After the first hour it just feels self indulgent and a little embarrassing. Not to mention the carpet burns from thrashing around like a lunatic on the closet floor.

I assure you, I am completely sane. First of all, we have a very spacious closet. It’s huge! I leave breadcrumbs when I go in for my wardrobe.  Secondly,  It was just a long, frustrating day. People are a disappointment and then I feel bad for expecting so much of them so in the end, their failures become my failures. Right? So there’s this person you know and this person doesn’t do the things he or she should do in order to lead a drama-free, successful, at least somewhat happy life. Even though this person knows the right thing to do. They have the answers. They just …don’t choose it. And then this person, this person turns to you like, CONSTANTLY, for validation and a pep talk. “Oh boo hoo. It’s not working out for me. Make me feel better.” Oh ffs, do what you’re supposed to do, don’t do the rest or else don’t come crying to me to make you feel better about your poor, stupid choices.

I assure you, I am completely sane. First of all, that conversation, while technically only in my head and with an imaginary person, it ALSO could very well apply to a conversation that takes place OUTSIDE of my head and with non. ..imaginary… person.

And secondly — I’ve forgotten the second point. But whatever it was, I’m sure it was cleverly constructed in such a way that you’re left with no lingering doubts whatsoever about my sanity.

Psycho killer, qu’est que c’est.

That IS what it’s all about, right? We’re all scrambling to be seen and heard. We’re a nation heavily dependent on being acknowledged. We want it so much we’re willing to abandon the most basic courtesy. I’m worried about us, America. I’m worried that we’re screwing it all up so much we’ll never get back on track again. We’ve had adversity before, sure. We’ve endured a lot. But you only get so many mulligans before the game is just over. For good.

Not that we’re going to implode or be nuked off the planet — though I don’t rule it out. It’s more likely that we will end up in a dark age of our own making. Civility and dignity will go the way of the dodo. The quest for enlightenment and education will be abandoned. Individuality and free thought will be looked upon with scorn. I’m worried a lot.

What if we’re already there? What if we can’t get back?

We’ve got information, an endless amount of information, right at our fingertips. We’ve got unlimited potential. We’ve got the whole world at our disposal and fracken Jersey Shore is the absolute BEST we can come up with??!?? Seriously???

Meh. We suck.

Don’t get me wrong. I still love us. I’m just having second thoughts about this relationship. And I don’t have all the answers. Or, you know, any of the answers. But we gotta do something! Maybe we should try couples therapy. Either that or we agree to see other people. I don’t care which. You pick. Just make it snappy because I won’t be waiting around for you all year.

I want to know why I’m never consulted about these decisions! I think people should know they are being deceived! They drive around, satisfied in the knowledge that the whole city got together and voted on their most favorite taco stand and it turns out I was never even asked!

And furthermore, what if I’m not the ONLY one they missed? What if it turns out that they missed a whole city block and those people are all driving around going, “Wait a minute, I don’t recall anyone asking ME what I would vote for in the contest for Seattle’s best plumber! What’s going on here!?” But then they’re embarrassed and they don’t want to seem like they’re out of the loop, so they pretend. They  go along. They’re like, “Oh yeah. That place. I voted so hard for that place! That place has the BEST coffee ever! That’s like, the ONLY place I ever go.”

They just overcompensate because they’re embarrassed about not being asked and they want to be included and “in the know” so they fake it.

It’s a conspiracy! It’s a sham.

We should all write our congressmen.

That’s not a question. It’s a statement. I’m so irritated and on edge. I wish I had a vice to fall back on, something I could run to and say things like, “You don’t understand. I need it. It’s the only thing keeping me sane right now! Just a little more. I can quit tomorrow. GIVE IT TO ME OR DIE!” and then there would be an intervention and a made-for-tv movie about my epic and harrowing struggle for sobriety – life/limb, good versus evil.

That kind of thing.

But I got nothin’. All I got is a whoppin’ case of the red ass and no real good explanation for where it came from. The boys are driving me to drink. They’re bickering and arguing like — well, like boys do. Matt is making me loopy. I don’t have anything to say to him and I feel like we’re missing each other by the mile. I keep trying to connect with him and end up coming up short at every turn.  Every new endeavor I undertake leaves me feeling flat and fully disinterested. Dissatisfied. Maybe I’m depressed. Is this what depression feels like? I’m not interested in anything. I don’t care about anything. I’m mad at everything. I’ve no patience.

I don’t even have the patience or interest in finishing this entry.