Tangled Up In A Twist Of Fate 100/ Yay!!! I made it, Pat Robertson strikes again, meds, sleep and the lack thereof.
Posted on May 17, 2013
This is my 100th blog as TUIATOF. It used to be Words and Numbers but I tried to copyright the title and some company in New Jersey said I couldn’t. So I changed names. The upside is I get a ton of e-mails from law firms willing to take up my cause long after it’s over. It does come from two songs off the Blood On the Tracks album by Bob Dylan. They are not my favorite though, that goes to Lily, Rosemarie and the Jack of Hearts. This is the longest I’ve kept with something that wasn’t mandated. I’ll stay with it. It’s a vent and a place I can work stuff out. Writing to people that I can’t see is a great way to throw out ideas that your family and friends would look askance at. The blog lets them float out and collide with someone. they think about it and it goes into the cosmos. The idea wanders around and eventually it will come back to me. Usually not in time for it to do any good, but it comes back. The thing is, you have to listen for it. I’m listening. Some days I hear the thoughts, some days they float by like petals falling off apple tree blossoms.
Heee’s baaack, Pat Robertson, the moral arbiter for America has spoken. In a broadcast he told a woman whose husband had cheated on her to forgive and forget. Among the woman I know Forgive and Forget aren’t anywhere near the top of the list. Superglue his testicles to his thigh is close to the top. Drug him a cauterize the head of his whatsis while he’s asleep is another thought. The problem with Pat and all the other “Christian” preachers is that they believe in their little hearts that women are subordinate to men. Pat, baby, you’d be taking it in hand if it weren’t for Mrs. Robertson. And all those children, did you think your buddy Jesus dropped them off on the doorstep? Pat, shut the f*** up. Just because you’re on television and you hear voices in your head doesn’t mean you should say everything that rattles out of the dark places. A bit of advice, go to a doctor. A real one, not one of those faith healers you probably visit. Have them test you for mental diminution. They’ll probably find that you’ve been slipping a few cogs. Then retire, tell the faithful God or whoever said that it was time for a younger woman to take over. Creflo Dollar’s wife seems like a good choice. She’s black, can rock a crowd and will bring in some diversity, oh, you don’t like that. Too bad, this is the Twenty First Century. Every thing changes, adapts. If you don’t think so, look at the Catholics. They’re becoming irrelevant.
I take my meds. The doc ramped up the Xanax. Actually, I was always able to take twice what I was taking, but misread the label for about six years. I have a small window to fall asleep and I usually miss it. Truthfully I like Craig Ferguson at one am. I wind up reading mail and books. Next thing it’s four in the morning and I’m trying to decide whether it’s worth going to bed versus staying on the couch and watching morning news progress from updates to the main news programs. I need to talk with the nurse practioner.
The postlady delivered three packages today. My new CD player, headset and the extension for the headset. Maybe there’s hope. This is motivation. Maybe tomorrow I’ll make boxes for storing CDs and scraping the detritus to the walls.
Monday my post will be “Why I Want To Write A Short Story” It’s for a book I’ve been reading and if I send it in the author might publish it.
See you on Monday.