Have you ever been stoned at a party, and some drunk dude is losing his shit? Being an obnoxious dick, picking fights, giving everyone his non-expert opinion, etc. And you just sit in a comfy chair and watch it all unfold with a half-smile on your face, unwilling—and potentially unable—to interject an opinion as Yo La Tengo songs drone on in your head louder than the stereo’s actual volume.
Whether you have or haven’t isn’t all that relevant, but that’s sort of how the past three weeks have felt to me. I’ve logged ONE 13-mile rail-trail ride with Wifey, a couple of walks in the woods, and care little.
I’d like to say that’s because I have indeed been stoned for three weeks solid, but I believe that 2020 officially has me running out of fucks to give—about almost everything that’s not photographing B play Dystopian Footy. America seems intent on fucking itself, again and again, so let it fuck itself.
— Soiled Appendix —
Between writing and publishing this shit, I had a late afternoon appointment with the O.G. Mindbender. We talked, she laid some IFS knowledge on me, and I’ll be working on the PART of me that is apathetic. I’m not 100% sure, but I think the apathy I experience is trying to protect me from potential failures or setbacks with my depressed parts. If I don’t ride, I can’t be upset with my fitness and turn on the self-loathing. If I convince myself that America is dumpster fire not worth giving a shit about, I won’t spiral further out of control when things inevitably go pear-shaped in November, and we’re stuck with the orange fuck dick for another 4 years of narcissistic idiocy as my wife starts a job search.
By the way, I hope, I haven’t inadvertently become the aforementioned drunk guy at the party by posting this mental diarrhea, because I would much rather be the guy with an empty bag of fucks to give and a full bag of legalized in the State of Michigan herbal supplements listening to Yo La Tengo at ungodly volumes and not giving a flying fuck.
Later.