The Ramblings of A Madman

To clarify, I wasn’t pooping. I was sitting on the closed toilet seat, not doing anything bodily-function related. I was just sitting (And smoking weed. Before you judge, check out the list of potential benefits associated with marijuana.).

An off-on-a-tangent question:

I’m not a fan of peeing sitting down. Logistically, it poses some challenges. Namely: (1) a serious risk of penis-to-bowl or penis-to-water contact and; (2) an accurate urine stream is a must, unless you enjoy getting a nasty splash on your legs, dookie hole, balls, or johnson (listed in order of increasing disgustingness).

It is important, Bitmoji. And the order I listed them is based on rational thought. You get a mix of poo/urine/water (in varied concentrations, obvs) on your legs? Not that ideal, certainly. But compared to anus, nuts, and penis? Not a big deal. Second, after legs, has to be the butt hole. I mean, it’s already dirty, no? Granted, the toxic liquid spray could potentially contain DNA from other individuals. But all things considered, another lock in the ranking position. That leaves gonads vs cock.

A shit-ton. There’s…never mind. Back to the crotch area fistfight for nastiness supremacy:

Let me start by saying if I got that foul mixture on my balls, I’d be horrified and it would be an awkward washing-my-sac-with-a-hand towel situation (public restrooms are so much more challenging). Without question, fucking vile. But if I get that shit on my junk, I’m briefly considering a Brillo pad. And a shower. A final consideration? Your penis must be clean, if considering sexual relations. The balls could be meh, but not the penis, unless you care little about giving your partner a urinary tract infection. And if you don’t care? You’re an asshole and I don’t want you following my blog.

Exaaactly. With my ranking of least preferred splash-back areas resolved, let’s continue:

So I was in the bathroom, minding my own business. And it was here that a whole host of unrelated thoughts entered my brain. This is typical for me, and the source of my insomnia: my mind refuses to shut down. Some of the ramblings are interesting, some not so much. I’ll let you decide:

• Should I get a manicure? Now where the fuck did that question come from, at 2 a.m.? I never really considered this in the past, but my wife likes longer fingernails when I scratch her back. So…why not? In fact, the ramblings went even further: should we get manicures together and; maybe there’s some thingy on Amazon where we could do it at home. Kinda make it a sensual sorta thing…
• We need to consider family therapy. Now that’s a valid contemplation, just not when I should be catching some zzzzzz’s. And also, what’s the connection between my fingernails and therapy?🤔 The counseling is simply to resolve some dynamics in the household, and how we could handle certain disciplinary scenarios. Our beautiful and cool daughter has quite the strong-willed personality and likes to do things her way. These traits will serve her well, later in life. But when we’re trying to ask her to clean up, and she’s not in the mood, look out. And it’s not just her fault these situations erupt. It also how we, as parents, approach her in the first place. So…we all just need to do things a little different.
• Sometimes I feel like an intruder in our home. Now I know I’m not, but that doesn’t stop the idea from invading my skull. We’re married, blissfully so. And I adore our kids (I know they really love me, also.). Yet when I look around the house, there are so many memories they have, prior to when I came along. My wife purchased the house 20 years ago. She had a boyfriend who lived with her for nine of those years, and they produced two amazing children, who I joyfully call my own. When my wife and I met, the boyfriend still stayed at the house, and would do so for six more months or so. Could be kind of awkward, if you let it. Which I didn’t. The point? There’s a history in the house, and I’m visually reminded of it daily: the paint colors, the photos, the everyday stuff. I absolutely feel welcome and at home. Unless my brain decides to be a dick and plant the “You’re an intruder” seed.
• Robin Williams.

I’ll tell you, if you let me, Bitmoji.

• Yes, Robin Williams. For two seconds, I pondered how talented he was. Then, I shifted to, “I could see how people commit suicide. Wearing a mask on the outside, we have no clue what’s occurring within.” Umm, not very cool. Of late, I’ve been exceedingly sad at times. The holidays + missing my biological kids + constant insecurities = depression. I’ve had moments of outright sobbing, and nanosecond introspections about ending it all. Never actually considering it, but still, not the coolest. In some ways, it’s an indication of my mental state. And now? Dancing around suicide ideation via Robin Williams? Yeah, I don’t like it. Let’s move on.☠️
• The “finger doll” game. Let me ‘splain. With my eldest child, I used to pretend the fingers on one hand were a family and the fingers on the other were another, giving them each their own voices. Then, occasionally, one of the fingers was a pet tiger. The tiger was friendly one minute, then would attack the other family. It was a silly little game my daughter loved, laughing and using her own hands to protect when the finger-tiger attacked. I can still hear my playful tiger growl and the smile on her face. But again, what’s the mental link between manicures, family therapy, feeling like an intruder, Robin Williams, and now this? Who the fuck knows?

You know what, Bitmoji?

You’re a funny guy. Haha. Can we get back to my uber-monkey mind? Thank you.

As I was saying:

• We left off at the finger-doll game, didn’t we? From there…
• My oldest child, Hannah. My beautiful, smart, funny, ambitious daughter, the same one I haven’t spoken to in a few years now. Which…makes me sad. I thought of her and those moments of frivolity we shared over the digits on my hand and a make-believe tiger. I wondered if I should call her, but my inner voice argued, “What’s the point? She’s not gonna call me back anyway.”

And that’s where I stayed, firmly in the grasp of sadness, at 2 a.m., sitting on the toilet.

You mean the association between sadness and my daughter? And before that, my daughter and the hand-game we played? Yeah, I do get appreciate how my brain made those leaps, Bitmoji. Way to look on the bright side, brah.😘👊

The thing is, no matter what chaotic ideas pinball around in my head, I have a high likelihood of landing in sadness. Sadness about my kids, my insecurities, my life. Just sad…

I did promise. Myself, not you, Bitmoji. I promised I wouldn’t dwell on my depression, like I’ve done in previous posts, like here and here, for example. But this blog is like the stuff floating around in my head: it may start off in one direction, but at some point, it’s gonna linger around in gloominess. And I’m not even apologizing, ‘cause that’s just who I am.

And isn’t that who we all are, in some fashion? Some people may be happier, but don’t we all have bad days? Despite what we’d like, no one is smiley all the time. Isn’t life filled with ups and downs, joys and sorrows? Our experience on this planet isn’t solely unicorns, fireworks, and sliding down a rainbow into a pot of gold. We’re all rolling around in the muck for awhile. And each of us has our own timetable for when we choose to rise up and rinse ourself off. Sitting in the bathroom, I was proud of how quickly I washed the mud away.

Instead of wallowing, I used the 5-4-3-2-1 technique to pull myself in the present. I’ve blogged about it previously, and Google has a shitload of useful info. In a nutshell though:

Acknowledge five things you can see, four things you can feel, three things you can hear, two things you can smell, and one thing you can taste.

After the 5-4-3-2-1 thingy, I did my mantra, staring in the mirror: “Be better and enjoy each moment.” My mantra has other elements and is constantly revising, always finishing with a high five to myself. But my scatter mind asked me to pause, mid-mantra. So I obeyed.

Looking at my reflection, then gazing deep into my eyes—into my soul-I told Mark, “You’re a good person, so smile.” Short, sweet, and simple. But I said the words with utter compassion, as I would to my dearest friend, a friend who needed a helping hand and a warm embrace. I listened to the words and I felt it, at its core. I listened.

At that instance, I felt more grounded and connected to myself than I can (ever?) remember. I felt like a good person. So I smiled at myself, definitely more brouthan I can ever remember. And I felt my mood shift, the woe-weight lift, both replaced by an excitement-a gratitude-for being…me.

I have zero clue how I got from pondering a manicure, to loving myself. It’s likely I’ll remain clueless on that front (especially considering I have zero intention of going down a rabbit hole that big). But I’m sure glad for the end result, just the same. Because I am a good person. And I will smile. I may not smile as quickly as you do. But I will. I guaran-fucking-tee it. It’s ok to be sad, Markie—for a bit. But you are not staying down in that muck.