Things I don't give a damn about

Hey, at the risk of being so corny it pops, let me start by saying, Thanks for reading this. Most days, my URL is my only contact with the outside world, so I'm glad you're here, double-glad if you're glad you're here, and triple-glad if you leave a thought in the comments.

My flatmate Dean is in the kitchen, reading a book. He's been there for hours, seated at the prep table, where people make sandwiches and maybe eat 'em. He's directly in front of the microwave — close enough that it can't be opened without first saying, "I need the microwave please," with or without the please.

When I said it, without please, Dean moved, but I shouldn't have to say it. He oughta not be in the kitchen, reading a book. He could read his book in his own room, or in the living room, or on the porch. He could read his book on the lawn — it's a warm, sunny autumn afternoon, while the kitchen is always gray and poorly lit.

He's not in the kitchen to read, of course. He's there to snag a conversation with anyone who enters or passes through on the way to the john. He needs those conversations like a vampire needs blood. He tried talking with me, starting in about the marvelous lunch he'd cooked at the restaurant yesterday, but I do not care. All Dean got from me was,  "I need the microwave."

I've told Dean, sure, how annoying it is when he clogs up the kitchen like that. Might as well tell it to my cat, so I've stopped saying it. 

You get tired of dealing with the same shit all the time, or at least I do.

Dean also, still, leaves a layer of hairy cream on the toilet seat every time he poops, but I no longer clean it. I sit on it and shit and immediately take a shower, or if I gotta poop but don't want to shower, I lay down a layer of thin cardboard from cereal boxes, over the dried or drying glop he's left on the seat. Someone else in the house gets sickened by it and wipes the mess off the toilet seat, about twice monthly.

Other stuff I'm tired of includes looking for work. I'm signed up with a temp agency, but they haven't called in long enough that I ought to be looking elsewhere. Looking for work is tiresome, though, so I'll keep putting it off until paying the rent is in peril. Yes, that's stupid and irresponsible, but it's me.

Likewise, I have no health insurance. Medicaid is available, in theory, if I'd simply dedicate three or four days of my life to filling out the forms and obtaining the necessary letters from the landlord and proof of poverty from my bank, along with my blood type and a complete archaeology of tax returns from everyone in my family since the date of my conception — and then do it all again every six months until I die. I am unwilling and not yet coughing up blood, so screw every bit of that.

I tie up the trash and drop it in the dumpster when it stinks, which is once weekly or so, but the non-stinking stuff is stacked higher than it's ever been. Stands three feet tall, covering about a third of the room, but I rarely need that corner anyway.

For a while I was trying to watch my girlish figure, hoping to lose some weight, but giving a damn about that has faded, too. I still eat mostly salads, but a salad topped with popcorn chicken and cheese and cranberries and nuts is not particularly low-calorie, and dessert too many nights has been ice cream. 

Also I used to walk daily, or almost, but that's forgotten, too. Yesterday, getting dressed to go to breakfast with the family was the first time I'd worn pants since my one-day career at Whitewater Marine.

In general, the list of things I don't care about keeps getting longer. And I don't care about it — add it to the list.

On my Firefox browser, there are five apps for downloading movies. I need all five, because each of them occasionally fails at the task, depending on the source and file type and other variables.

Very rarely, all five apps fail, so there are also five movie-download apps on Chrome by Google, my secondary browser. Or there were, until a week or so ago, when Chrome disabled all five at once, announcing that they're malware.

That's bullshit, of course. Each separate app from each different developer didn't suddenly become malware. It's Google being Google, disabling the apps, probably at the request of MPAA, because they're for downloading movies.

It's been a year since I needed Chrome to download anything, so this is FYI, that's all. Add it to the growing list of things I don't give a damn about.

The readers of this page are old like the author, and keep dying off, so be careful out there.

Based on comments and emails, the average reader of this page is at least 50-something. We all seem to be graying, rickety, so-far survivors.

Last one alive is the winner.

Sorry about this entry, by the way. Sorry about most entries. The quality's been on a downward spiral for thirty years. Ask me if I give a damn.


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  1. > Based on comments and emails, the average reader of this page is at least 50-something.

    Well, I've turned 20 this year and I'm probably your most active reader. :)

    1. Why, hello, young whippersnapper. *What up?*

      (Did I get that right?)

  2. Well, I'm 5023 an I consider myself above average but nobody else does. As Doug would certainly say were he awake at 0314, welcome aboard. Keep commenting and use your name or part of your name as I do. I've been carrying this basket a long damn time. Cheers.


    1. *John the basket case!* Dunno why that never pooped into my head before.

      Also, what's in the basket?

    2. Exactly what you would expect.

      My ♀BiLs have always had nicknames for everyone they know. It's like the communists refusing to call anything by accurate names, but they're not communists. So my wife to possibly be invites her brothers over to meet me. We prepare dinner, two meatloafs and many vegetables and appetizers and dessert. We like leftovers and who has time to cook nightly? They plow through both loafs, all the vegetables, every snippet of dessert and all that's left of the appetizers possibly including some bamboo shrimp-impaling sticks, and decide I'm johnthebaptist, partly because they detect I'm irreligious. We are invited to a BBQ at her younger brother's house, and his 3-year-old hears johnthebaptist, and being unfamiliar with baptism and other archaic rituals, transliterates my nom de amour to johnthebasket, and there it has remained for 35 years.

      What's in the basket? Two thousand years of doubtful mythology, a CD player (old school) and a toothbrush.

      Everybody had a basket. I choose to carry mine at all times.


    3. That's a dang fine story, Mr Basket. So earning a nickname from the BILs and the tot was a mark of acceptance, an honor never forgotten.

      I have no stories of acceptance to reply with, but I'll tell you what my mother would say about the three-year-old:

      "That child is old enough that he should've been baptized by then and very well understood his commitment to our Lord. And what about you, John, why are you irreligious when God loves you so..."

  3. I would attribute my clear thinking to my horseshit detector which has spent the last 73 years on full alert.


    1. Essential for anyone, as the bullshit is literally killing us.


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