So this is what 9am looks like? Shards
of light, wincing contrast, ya know, I think I prefer the day-worn look
of afternoon better. This getting up early thing doesn't suit me. It doesn't even T-shirt and shorts me. See? Even the pre-noon jokes are bad!
No don't look at the post time! It has nothing to do with when anything was written. That's just like watching Ghost Whisperer and saying, "They just filmed this treasure 3 minutes ago." No matter how poor the presentation, somebody prepares it earlier--just like my blog.
MyUnwife will confirm that I can write crap 3 days ago as well as I can write crap today. The difference is with the divorce, it's all crap: yesterday, today, tomorrow.
To infinity and beyond!
The thing is that crap doesn’t "just happen." There's always some preparation. Even divorce doesn't just happen. Somebody
plants the seeds of dissention months, even years, in advance, then
come harvest time, we collect the tares, and throw away the wheat. Oh
don't point to your partner and scream, "You farmer!" We're all tending
some furrow.
Me, I'm practicing with my brow. Well, brows, plural. I
don't have the golden gate running across my nose bridge. No if I have
nose hair, it's on the spigot side, not the furrowed side.
Yeah, the furrowed brow, it makes me look like I've mad at the world, or deep in thought. I'm not--neither thing. I'm just cranky. My inner petulant child is running amok and he's got finger paint.
I
normally keep him chained down like Kong, but shifting my day to the
sunny side has left the gate down and the vigilant villagers too tired
to make a sacrifice. Now the brute's mad as hell. When I kept vampire
hours, the monsters were darker but more courteous. I could coax them down with small furry woodland creature blood.
"Here have some more skunk."
That's another problem: skunk blood is very unpopular in the Vampire circuit.
"Here comes skunk Rob. Bleh! Bleh!"
If you say that with a Bela Lugosi accent, it's almost funny. Almost…
There
are always problems, be they divorced or be they wed, I grind their
axes to make my bread--or something like that. The thing is that
divorce, job, whatever, I mill it in my head until I come up with an
answer I can swallow. I'm finding a way to make it palatable, some people think I'm dwelling.
"Why do you dwell Rob?"
Thanks anonymous reader, let me tell you: I don't. I process. Yeah, I know, that just makes me "handi-capable." But if you were to see things from my short bus, you'd understand. I need to process, what looks like Rob dwelling is usually Rob eating pride.
Pride vs. truth. Godzilla vs. MechaGodzilla. Who is the real enemy? Sometimes they look the same. Sometimes
the only distinction between good and evil is a bad goatee. We make the
best choices we can based on our previous monster hunts. This time I'm siding with the torch wielding villagers: my creation has gone awry. It's not truth, it's pride and I need to correct it.
This new early day thing is part of that. I've spent my time on the problem, now this is my solution. Time to move on. The
inner monster wants a sacrifice, but California is in a virgin drought
and the scape skunk no longer appeases. This time it's all about
compromise. The child never likes that, but left
to it's own devices, the inner child would devour us. This compromise
makes me honest. It makes me something better than I was before. That should help me sleep at night.