Rob-world

WHY did I separate Grendel and his brother? ‘Cause I was scared, scared of taking on too much. Dammit, my fear killed them both. They probably could have survived the FIV, together. But, no, I was afraid of taking on too much, so I left 1 behind, and, in so doing, killed them both, chop, chop. I HATE the man I’VE BECOME; RULED by fear , and repeatedly castrating myself with the dull blade of indecision. Days from now, I leave with Butch for A WEEK IN L.A. A chance to remember what it’s like to have friends. A chance to say, good-bye. Grendel’s death was just the capper; I’m so fucking tired of Butch negating all my hard o.t. work solely because it’s inconvenient for him to have me do my own shopping and stuff; I keep waiting, and have even discussed my concerns over Butch’s meddling actively undoing my hard work at Moss, with her, but nothing ever happens, good; no one fucking cares. I shouldn’t have to fight so hard to get people I pay to right by me. It’ll be a quick trip, maybe mor...

Hastened Grendel’s demise by separating him from his FIV+ brother. I was just so worried about biting off more than I could chew in my new sit-down life, that I made this grave error of adopting only 1 cat. Seriously, "If it weren't for bad luck, I’d have no luck at all.” I should go check on him, maybe adopt him.

I THINK I stay up so late because I can’t take going to bed without Grendel. I’m crying now, at the thought. I’m a fuckin’ mess. I’m so goddamn lonely. I miss him SO much. Maybe I’ll cry myself to. Sleep again, tonight. Maybe? Shit, who’m I kidding? No one, least of all, me.

I need to set an earlier bed-time. I think I stay awake, In the hope that, when I try to sleep, I’ll go right out. No luck yet, & masturbation, hitherto my sleep aid par excellance , doesn’t really Work for me, anymore.

There’s another fiv+, male, tuxedo cat listed as available on the web. Should I adopt him? At least, I would know what I’m in for. Maybe this is my purpose, now; to adopt, love, and give a final home to f.i.v.+ male, tuxedo cats? Eh, could be worse. Although, he looks a lot like Grendel. I don’t think it’s him, though. Grendel had a smuge of black under the chin. Am I crazy, to even be considering this? Probably. But, my life would be so much poorer if I’d not given Grendel a chance.

This afternoon, around 4:10 p.m. I had to euthanize my therapy cat, Grendel.  They told me when I adopted him he was FIV+, SO all I can do is hope I enriched his last bit of life as much as he enriched mine. NOT POSSIBLE, but, hey, it’s a hope.  At least, we got in a final nap/cuddle-session this afternoon. I can’t stop crying, and I’m not even sure I should.

Like, Grendel’s F.I.V.; and Butch in L.A. Grendel has F.I.V. That’s our/my new normal. & Butch frustrates me because, oh God, how much time do you have? I think my recovery has evolved to a POINT WHERE I no longer need him to do as much, yet he frustrates me a lot because he has repeatedly denied me chances to evolve. From the outset; I’ve said, his job, really, is to help me get to a point where I no longer need him. He’s said that’s his objective, too; but I no longer believe it is. Butch, Gil, and Peter all seem unwilling to let me fail but, in my experience, that’s how you learn. That was why I was so eager to sign up as a beta tester for the new Mac O.S.: because it might present me with obstacles as it evolved which would test me; which it did. To the. Point where, 1x, I uninstalled it; only to re-install it because it aggravated me so, not having it. Which was ANOTHER learning experience for me, that I get no credit for.

It’s been that way, day after day, for. The past 4 years, especially.;

Still depressed. Hell, it’s become a low, constant, hum in my soul. This is all the writing I do, now. This was another lost day. Not even I give a fuck anymore: about anything except Grendel’s well-being. I’ve got to try writing these in the a.m. Maybe listing what I hope to do each day will make for a better write/read than this. Please, God. This just isn’t my natural state, always being such a “Debbie Downer”.

That I just can’t seem to do much more than sleep. The trip to L.A. has turned into, for me, a chance to say good-bye and “I love you” TO MY L.A. friends. I’d best re-patriate to Ireland before Inauguration Day, 1/20.

It seems like no one I know is taking this Trump-forthcoming gay Holocaust parallels concern of mine seriously. I am. FUCK, I am.

I no longer feel safe in this country, as an openly gay man. I want to go to Ireland, move there, full stop, by 1/21. Trump won’t do anything but make life riskier for gay people; I’ve a much more viscsceral reaction than most to the fear of a bias crime being perpetrated upon you, because, well, duh, it happened. N o, no, no; until you’ve been fag- bashed and nearly murdered, shut the fuck up with any disagreement. You just don’t know; you just don’t know. i do.

Election Day Tuesday. I’m of 2 minds if Trump wins: 1. GET THE FUCK OUT OF DODGE. 2. Stay and fight the good fight. I’ll probably do option 2; more’s the pity. Grendel’s F.I.V. makes relocating with him internationally nigh impossible, and he’s too much of a boon to me to even THINK of re-locating without him. Butch, sure; our relationship has, sadly, deteriorated to the point where he only tolerates me because I pay him. More of this anon; I’m sleepy.

Butch likes to say he sees me as big on shirking responsibility. No surprise, then, I see just the opposite. I take respponsibility for my part in my assault. I invited Ian and Glen back to my place for some hot ports before sleep; it was a cold January night, & our chat was going well. It was only 11; so a nightcap seemed within reason. Ciaran was on call; I dreaded a long cold lonely night; to lose a few hours in chatter with potential new friends seemed ideal. I’ve not been shy on being forthright with being gay since coming out in 1987 on the Sally Jesse Raphael show. The pub we met in, The now-defunct Silver Swan, was listed in The Gay Guide to the Northwest of Ireland as being gay friendly. So, I figured the patrons would be, too. I think my ‘bashing was more of a robbery gone awry than an act of pure viciousness, but then, then , unlike young Dr. Slevin,I didn’t have to deal with finding my parner near death, in an ever-widening pool of blood; who only hung on, ...

& what did I do with it? Watched’s ALEKSANDER’S PLACE on NETFLIX. Liked it, but it was twisted; about a gay hooker boy, who ends up getting fucked by his heretofore-unknown-father. Spent an inordinate amount of time thinking about how fucked up my life is, and how I might best fix it. Jury’s still out. Of course. I’m so lonely and unloved. I don’t see the point to this anymore.

The vet says he might’ve been born with it. I found this out yesterday, and it pretty much sent me into a fierce tailspin emotionally. It’s compounding my suicidal impuses. Honestly, I don’t know how, or if, I’ll survive his passing. He’s the only one who’s actively loves me, or regularly shows me any physical signs of affection. And science has shown, we only thrive as human beings, when we have regular, emotional, physical contact with others.

I couldn’t go to Meeting,or outfest, yesterday. Too depressed.  I’m disturbed by the way my control over the direction, & substance of my life seems shanghied away from me. But, sadly, this isn’t NEWs, now; more like, same old, same old.

... I'm moving to Ireland for 4/8 years. Yeah, I know, "rats leave a  sinking ship;" but I just can't roll around and watch him destroy this country I love for 4/8 years.

I think it’s just habit. I’m afraid of asserting myself. Far’s I can tell, it all goes back to when I was so much less capable than I am now, or am becoming. Don’t get me wrong: I remain obscenely grateful for the sacrifices Gil and Ed, particularly, have made and continue to make for me, especially in terms of my $. I have no trust issues; but I need/want to know how much I have, where it is, and how I access it, or portions thereof. How much are Butch, Peter ,Gil, and Judy paid and how/when? May I please have a copy of my portfolio, to peruse and consider? I have other expenses, like acupuncture, vitamins/supplements, and therapeutic massage, along with 2, count ‘em, two , physical trainers; how much is all that? Who’s in charge of doling out the raises? Who sets the payment scale, initially, and how is it maintained? What is it? Knowing and asking questions like this, and more, is a key part of my ongoing t.b.i. rehab; I HOPE no one takes offense, but realizes that.

I JUST finished watching it on Netflix, and it was surpringly good. I was thrown off it for quite a while by it’s soft-core porn-promising title, but was pleasantly surprised to find a heart of substance beating beneath the lean, taut, belly and pecs of Kirill Emelyanov, the Eastern boy of the title.

Even though my right wrist has never regained it’s full, pre-t.b.i. flexibility and reliance, I still find myself hemming and hawing when it comes to buying a specifically left-handed mouse. I’m not sure my brain will go along with such a dramatic shift in focus. I’m not sure it has a choice, though. And so, they quietly slip away, my little bastions of “normalcy”; I don’t even think anyone knows or thinks of what It does to a person, to see his hitherto well-lived life fall into a bottomless chasm of “used-to-be’s."

How unhappy, how miserable, how unproductive. I’m only still here because Grendel needs me. I don’t write anymore in great part because between the trust and Butch doing everything for me, I’m denied, and have been denied the opportunity to make, and learn from my self-correcting, my own mistakes. I think that’s why I was so happy to sign up and beta test Mac OS Sierra. Yes, I got so frustrated I un-installed and re-installed it. But I persevered and the latest update fixed the issues I was having with it. I’m still reticent to use Suri because of my speech dysarthria, and she’s a HUGE part of Sierra. But, so far, we’re working it out. I’[m hunt’n’pecking this, but only because it’s late, I’m too knackered, & my speech dysarthria really kicks in when I’m tired.

& all I did today was go to Meeting. Let's say it's the beer I had with dinner.

If I’m gonna properly devolve into a rice queen, I understand it simply MUST be done. How racially and sexually offensive can I BE with just one sentence? Home run it seems. VOTE FOR TRUMP. }wink{

about a gay Muslim making his way to Mecca, and then there, carrying out the pilgrimage required by his faith.

No, not the wheelchair; but this sense of powerlessness over my own life.

Every night it's the same thing: loneliness, the tedium of living a life of dry, dead, hopes, ideals, and dreams.I don't write anymore; I made a huge mistake in creating the trust in not preserving a shred of my autonomy. I'm SO outta here the second Grendel dies. We can be buried together. I'm dreading my upcoming trip to L.A. w/Mr. Codora. My life is such a failure. it .... I... used to have such promise. Drake out.

Maybe it’s that I worked out with Brenden today, then had a couple beers tonight. Maybe it’s the fact I’m lonely as all get out. Maybe both.

went to Meeting; & I must keep remembering, I asked for the porn embargo on my Mac; I was/am worried that my avid use of porn is diluting or hampering my need or desire for personal sexual/intimate relationships. So I blocked those sites when setting up Sierra. By the way, my killer fear of intimacy is still omni-present; even or especially when there’s no reason to be. I’m SO fucked, & not in a good way. Oyyyyy…..

But, I’m snot-filled, from allergies but in pretty good spirits. TV’S NOT working right, so I amused myself by renting ROOM, a movie based on a novel by an Irish writer fiend of mine, Emma Donoghue. It was really pretty good. Made me want to read the book. My tv remote needs batteries, but I kind of like eschewing the idiot box in favor of writing and contemplation.

So, I’m back to test driving Sierra, but still having password troubles: it won’t recognize my recorded ones. My biggest noticeable problem is, it won’t let me look at porn sites. I’m hoping that installing the next update will help me with all this. I missed the porn a lot the first few days; now, not so much.

I was test-driving a Beta version of it, but it kept asking for passwords then not acknowledging the one’s I’d recorded as the correct ones, so I gave it up for now. PLUS, I’d configured the set up so I couldn’t watch porn, and oh, no, no, no.

So I didn’t go to Meeting. Which is a shame really, because I need it. A part of my brain injury is this crippling depression. Meeting helps me feel less alone; which could only have helped, today. But, I guess God thought otherwise. Hence the rain. Butch doesn’t seem to care about my well-being anymore. His convenience is all that’s paramount to him. He won’t let me grocery shop anymore; which sounds like a little thing, I know, but is HUGE in my personal governing. He’s also continually frustrated by the slowness and permeable nature of my t.b.i. recovery. Yeah, & I’m NOT????? I also see nothing being done to re-activate my sense of personal or professional value. Which isn’t up to Butch, but I’m just saying. It’s probably not fair, but I thought, when Gil came on board as a Trustee, my attempts at re-capturing my life as a writer would be full tilt ahead. But I’m being ungrateful, & that’s flat-out wrong. I also have the impression that it’s primarily because of him, I’ve be...

My life sometimes seems like an ADELE song: plenty of high notes, low notes that are rich and dark; and a soupçon of drama.

I read a great review of his then new album, “BARRY MANILOW LIVE” in THE CHARLESTON DAILY MAIL, our local evening newspaper. I was 15, and hurried home to listen to  the record/LP on my dad’s Realistic (Radiol Shack) stereo, with his headphones, so I could listen to it LOUD. My life forever changed. I never knew art could move you before then. I never looked back; from then on, I recognized that all art, carried in it the capability to move you, emotionally. I can’t understate what a huge revelation this was to me. My life was forever changed.

I of course downloaded and installed it. The only trouble I have so far is I can’t seem to access my usual porn sites. And, because of my reticence over my speech dysarthria, I’ve yet to make Suri my friend; and it’s a HUGE part of the new OS. And because of my memory shortcomings, I’m having password troubles, but THAT was predictable, at least. I bought. YENTL Friday, and it reminded me of Julia Moscatello, and a simpler time in my life.

It'll be Donald Trump vs. Hilary Clinton come November. Reality tv at its lowest ebb. If Trump wins, I'm gotta here. I know, "rats leave a sinking ship'" , AND ALL THAT, BUT I love this country too much to sit around and watch it devolve like it will under Trump.

Nothing new, as these entries attest.

Just finished watching it on Netflix. LOVED IT. It was all about a guy in a wheelchair with muscular dystrophy still working to wring the most out of life. Maybe I should buy a wheelchair accessible van, and hire a hot, young, smart gay chauffeur. But, that would piss Butch off. Hm.

I LOVE that superhero shit. Had therapy today. We talked, basically, about how fear dominates my life now. I'll enumerate tomorrow.

An ON DEMAND sale rental, so I'll watch it again tomorrow, before the rental expires. I CAN see why it didn't please everyone, and I really kept seeing Holly Woodlawn (who was actually there) as the inspiration for the main Puerto Rican drag queen character. BUT... Meeting tomorrow, so off to bed.

Hate Crime Links AngieZapta.com Anti-Defamation League of New England Anti-LGBT Hate Crimes page at Wikipedia Back 2 Stonewall Center for Homicide Research Equality Michigan Fight Hate Now Gay American Heroes Foundation GLAAD Hate Crime Resource Kit Hate Crimes Bill Human Rights Campaign’s Hate Crimes Page NativeOut SOS Homophobie Southern Poverty Law Center Trans Women's Anti-Violence Program Truth Wins Out United Nations Office of Human Rights Western North Carolina Citizens For An Ending to Institutional Bigotry Wipe Out Homophobia

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Today is Pride in Philadelphia.   & it's not raining.  It's happening at  nearby Washington Square West, park. a block away from my house.  And I'm in my apartment. Alone.  I'm horribly afraid of people  since my assault. I  tried to go with my friend Bill, but he's writing, and I remember too well how THAT is.  His husband, Kevin, is  out of town 'til tonight.  Ciaran's in Chicago.

I started my iTunes up, and it began by playing Barry Manilow's "Somewhere Down the Road", a song that set the tone for the first 2 of my plethora of failed relationships thus far. A significant part of me thinks fate dealt a proper and just course to me, given the way I failed to appreciate the love I had with Scott. One of the great joys of life to me is knowing that, in choosing Ciaran to be my primary caregiver, it freed him up to begin re-building his life, his family, with Geoff. That he has done this tells me that then, I made the right decision in letting go, so forcefully.

It was raining today, so this was a surprisingly effective strategy. Lots more thoughts today, about how stop-gap measures have become status quo by my not objecting strenuously to them at inception.

I worked out with Brenden today, so I'm tired; not so tired I could't re-set-up my blog, but TIRED.

Hopefully, it's now more "me". Whatever that is.

I have GOT to find a better time to do this.  It's 11, and all  

Hopefully, Meeting tomorrow.  But, it's supposed  to  be  kick-ass cold  tomorrow, so, we'll see.  Ever since my T.B.I., cold is NOT  my friend.  At first, only snow was insurmountable.  Because of  the wheelchair.  Now, cold gets me.   I hate that.  I know it's a typical hindrance to  .B.I.'ers;  your internal thermometer's all out of  whack. But still,I hate that.   It's too hot in my apt.;it's too cold outside to go  the 4 blocks to Meeting. STOP WHINING ;  just go.

& was interested to see, in the Republican  rebuttal, a muted blowback against Trump. ABOUT FUCKING TIME. I mean, he  NEVER had my vote, but he’s sunk the level of political discourse in this country to a new low.

I’m not talking about the wheelchair, I’m talking about ME.  I used to be the kind  of person who happened to life;  now, life  happens to me. & I don’t like it.  Not one bit. People treat me differently, and, again:   I’m not talking about the wheelchair, I’m talking about ME.  This more than just the old “I’m brain injured, not brain damaged” kind of thing; it’s much more insidious than that.   My  prized sense  of autonomy  and my sense of taking for granted I’d be able to roll with whatever punches life gave me is gone; kaput, finito. And  I want  it back. Hell, I NEED it back. URGENTLY; yesterday.