…I can breathe a little bit better.

I’m like 18 days in on my new workout routine. Well, not “new,” more like “the thing I stopped doing because I’ve been real busy and/or depressed the last few years.”

I’m explicitly not to trying to lose weight. I don’t give a shit about my weight anymore. Whatever. I’m fine with this body being the size and shape it is.

But I do want to be able to climb stairs without having to take a break to catch my breath. And the exercise is surely, if slowly, doing what I want. I’m exchange, my legs are just like constantly sore. Still a fair trade.

Also, I haven’t had a drink in… three weeks? That’s it? Ugh. Sobriety would be easier if it didn’t feel so long.

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…I’m capable of being uncomfortable and fucking dealing with it.

You hear that, Florida? What the fuck is this Stop WOKE Act bullshit? You guys are a fucking embarrassment.

I’m a depressive who barely leaves the house even on good days and I’ve still got more balls than your entire state. “Oh no, history made me uncomfortable, you’re not allowed to do that.” You useless fucks.

Guaranteed the louder somebody shouts about PC culture, the bigger a wimp they are.

Every day I ponder on our various national and global shames and look in the mirror with burning focus on all my sins, real or imagined, direct or indirect, and my conclusion is: I can still do better and it’s worth it to try, even at the most hopeless of times. If you look at the mirror and just feel hopeless, I understand and can’t blame you.

But if you stop looking at the mirror the second you squirm and then say, “This thing’s broken,” you’re not even trying. How am I supposed to have any respect for that? How am I supposed to take any of you seriously about any goddamn thing ever again?

Today’s worth it because I’m still trying. And fuck you for getting in the way.

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…the billing department at Hopkins has been easy to work with.

I’ve pretty much given up hope for the day when we don’t constantly have a rotating medical debt north of at least four figures. I’m sure I’ll see that day eventually, maybe when the kids are in high school. But ten straight years of this shit has really put a damper on the hope that healthcare will ever, on any meaningful level, personal or societal, be fixed in the United States. And yet… I do still have the tiniest sparkle that maybe when I’m an old man, my grandkids (if any) will actually grow up in a country worth all the bullshit patriotism people pretend to have for it.

That hope is gone when it comes to the people. Ten years of this grueling medical shit has completely deadened me to the idea that any Republican, Boomer, or lingering Silenter will ever feel the slightest shred of empathy, responsibility, or guilt for the hellscape they set up for me and my children. They will die clutching pearls while their children burn alive, and they will be the last human generation to find rest.

But.

At least Johns Hopkins is cool with me doing interest-free payments. Like, it’s one thing to find that you can never travel or go on vacations because you have debt. It’s another when you pay off that debt and then find out that, due to capitalism, your debt had a gross mutant baby and you now have more surprise debt, so fuck you.

Yeah, I’m still feeling my low from last week, what of it. I’m grasping at straws here. Not paying interest, that’s my glimmer in the shadows, baby.

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…there will be a Diet Coke at lunchtime.

I gotta be honest, today I woke up in a real depressive fit. It’s pretty hard to think of things worth getting out of bed for today.

All the news is about swing voters saying they want Trump back, which is like saying, “I know when my dick was in the mousetrap, it got infected and nearly fell off, but this glue trap is just so sticky!” I guess when our only options in the last century have been various shades of abuse, people just want the version they can really feel.

And if it’s not that shit in the news, it’s conspiracy theories and bullshit and excuses for actual literal armed terrorists who tried a coup. Not that our country has ever had a problem defending terrorism before. (See, when white people do it, it’s a “race riot” and somehow the people that were genocidally murdered were partly to blame.)

Also, centrists keep fucking shitting the bed and making concessions to corporations while cutting social programs and safety nets that the rest of us could use, and instead of looking at the polling as a warning sign that everybody is just really, really fucking tired of their bullshit, they always get it wrong and say, “This is why centrism is more important than ever! DIG DEEPER!”

So today’s one of those days where I have to get myself excited about a single, mundane detail I actually have power over. And that’s why today is worth it so I can have a goddamn Diet Coke at lunch.

I know it’s a joke soda. I know it’s also the preferred beverage of that rapist that everybody seems to love so much. And I know it’s not particularly good for me.

But I developed a taste for it and I only have them once in awhile, and today’s one of those days, so fuck it. Diet Coke is the high point today. Some days are like that.

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…I’m writing a new novel.

Thank god. I feel physically ill when I go too long between projects.

My coworker is doing NaNoWriMo and wanted a writing buddy. I did this a couple times way back when my kids were just babies and I’ve opted out the last few years since I had a pretty good routine outside of November.

This is as good a reason as any to get started again. I need something to look forward to. I cannot stress enough how bad my depression gets when I don’t stay busy. I can’t stop moving. I don’t have bipolar disorder, I have shark disorder.

The real question is if I’m going to self publish again. I don’t know. On the one hand I need it as a cap to my efforts. On the other, I think going unnoticed on the market is a big reason I get discouraged from doing it again.

Guess you’ll find out in like a year or two.

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