#ColleenLindsay, Still Hero; #MoonerJohnson, Crybaby

 

So. I have been debating the wisdom of sharing the coming topic for the last two weeks. I’m actually proud of myself for keeping it to myself for this long, and I’m debating whether I’m ashamed of myself for feeling compelled to speak of it now.

I have always been a manly man- proud, dependable, thoughtful, stable, human. I have endured many hardships throughout life without many complaints, and I have suffered many fools without killing any of them.

OK, without killing any of them on purpose.

I get that I can be whiny and act like a baby at times when I’m hurt, plus I also get that I speak my mind almost every time something bothers me. And I do understand that I get hurt often and bothered always.

If you got your pecker caught in a zipper would you cry like a baby?

As for all of the bothers that bother me, imagine if you had, let’s say three, individual trains of thought working their way down the tracks of your synapses, all at the same time. Right there you’ve got three times the bother, right?

My brain has been tested and shown to hold as many as twenty separate and distinct thought patterns simultaneously. They measure that by scanning your brain to see which parts are active. The software was written to detect a maximum of twenty brain wave patterns because no previously tested individual had shown more than four separate thought patterns. Basically, I am that rare character who uses his entire brain to think.

But the bother to that lies in the fact that, rather than focusing all of that wattage on a single thought, my entire skull is filled with myriad, disparate thoughts, none of which receive enough attention to be well thought out. If you don’t have my kind of ADHD, you simply can’t understand what it’s like.

Why that bothers me is, well think about it. What if you used 100% of your brain rather than the typical less than 15%, and you were still dumber than a rock? What if you utilized almost seven times the normal person’s brain power and you still screwed things up all of the time?

What if you had started this bloggie posting with the intention of praising Colleen Lindsay, and before you knew it you’d spent 400 words crying like a baby because you have ADHD?

Look. At dinner last night, I was talking to the family about what I wanted to say in this posting. Mother and Gram were there, Gnat came solo, Dixie and Squirt, Streaker Jones, Sister and Anna the Amazon came over, and Sheriff Woozie Wozniac dropped by to serve me a summons.

Woozie always tries to serve me with my summonses on a Thursday night. For as long as I’ve been alive, Mother has cooked her famous mashed potatoes and cream gravy for Thursday dinner. And the Sheriff loves Mother’s, as Gram puts it, “Taters n gravy.”

When he stops by on a Thursday night, all he eats is that. He plops a giant pile of potatoes in the middle of his plate, and pushes a big cup into the center with the serving spoon he uses to eat. The potatoes look like a fresh white cow patty that someone stepped in. Then, he carefully measures the gravy to ensure he gets a potatoes-to-gravy ratio of 3-to-1, based on volume.

Then, he consumes the pile one serving spoonful at at time, and each trip of spoon to mouth is accompanied with a swallow, and a, “Mmmmmm, Mother Johnson. These ‘r mighty fine vittles.”

After maybe the first dozen spoonfuls, I’m ready to kill him with my fork, and Holy Shit guys, I’m digressing the undies off us all. Make that re-digressing us to nakedness.

My point is to say that Colleen Lindsay is one of my heroes. Check her out on Twitter to see why.

Me, I’ve been sitting on hard wooden benches for the last two weeks (not wooden benches in a church), and I feel compelled to tell you what’s bothering me. I wish I could stack myself up to Colleen’s height and suffer quietly, but I cannot. And here’s the deal.

Remember me telling you about the significant infection I had in the non-colon-non-prostate parts of my ass? The parts that lie between anus and coccyx? Remember me telling you that 80% of all sufferers of the malady healed without further problems, but that 20% developed fistula?

Me, I’m a twenty-percenter.

I was talking about it to the dinner table last night, and attempting to describe what it looked like. I kept trying different descriptive words and analogies, none of which seemed just right.

Since Gram had inspected it for me just before we sat down to eat, she said, “Who gives a shit Mooner. Just write that it looks jist lik that Crack Yur Toe Jam volcano over to Iran. Ya got tha one big ‘ruption, an then there’s them three little crates offn to tha sides.”

OK, for starters let me interpolate. What Gram said was that my ass looks like the Indonesian volcano Krakatoa with lava bubbling from three smaller craters on its sides.

To boil all the bullshit out of this, I have an active fistula, and I will need major surgery to be rid of it. That means stitches and donut-ring seat cushions and sitz bathes and drainage and pain.

I have been trying to stop feeling sorry for myself and be more of a man about this, but I can’t seem to shake the dread. I want to be like Colleen Lindsay, but I don’t know how.

I want to talk to her to find the source of her strength and grace, but I won’t bother her with my bothers. I’ll just suffer in semi-silence and keep you guys posted.

I’m gonna need more Carta Blanca though.

Manana, y’all.

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