Saw this vanity plate in the car park at the shopping mall. We don’t have toys called “The Doxie” here in Virginia, but in The UK, this could mean something completely different.

Here we think dogs. There they think ….

….but you knew that already. I’m sitting in my chair looking at the debris field that trails my life. Fortunately the only broken person still alive is me.

And I can handle me. At least I give me to God.

I don’t have it in me to seduce my wife, all The Waltons and sweet iced tea. The cotton Jockey Granny panties/briefs hold no allure. I will not rape her while she sleeps.

So the conundrum percolates a little longer, like The Yellowstone super volcano.

The Awards Show of the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences (The Oscars) holds no appeal for me. I just don’t care.

“March Madness” the NCAA Men’s Basketball Tournament holds no appeal for me. I just don’t care.

I’m just sick of all the stuff relentlessly promoted. That includes Oreos and Domino’s Pizza.

There’s no hope for me. I admit it.

Yesterday I was eager to get back to the Y for more swimming, to maintain my schedule of AA meetings, and to follow my Weight Watchers points budget. 

Today… I slept. A lot! Did nothing but watch TV, eat, sleep, watch more TV, then eat some more, sleep some more.

A sentence popped into my head, while J and I were at lunch. The sentence is this, “It’s a special time on the farm when it’s time to slaughter the hogs”. I can recall a memory that my father shared about his Uncle Allen , climbing on the back of a pig to slash its throat, on a day when hogs were slaughtered.

The sentence is voiced by a Southerner. Perhaps it is disgust at my wife’s obsession with the television series The Waltons, currently broadcast on a saturation basis by Hallmark.

Now I hate the fuckin’ Waltons. The Waltons is Hollywood garbage, a vision of 80’s yuppies dropped into the Blue Ridge Mountains of depression-era Virginia. It’s disgustingly wholesome.

So this bizarre mash-up, Waltons and hog killing has been percolating in my head. It is exhausting to deal with these thoughts, further buttressed by a line of dialogue from Sam Peckinpah’s The Wild Bunch. “This is better than a hog killing!”, uttered by a man taking valuables off corpses.

It took me several hours of headaches and napping to put this all together. Tomorrow I can resume my regular schedule of obsessions, diet, exercise and unrequited Lust.

February, I started tracking my food, following the Weight Watchers guideline. Last week I started exercising, specifically power walking. It’s a simple exercise. All one has to do is lace up one’s sneakers and step out the door. Swimming is my preferred activity, but planning is required to get a time slot in the YMCA pool. I guess I use the same amount of time, more or less. I stay around the house when I walk. More social interaction comes with going swimming at the Y. I need the structure of being at certain places at certain times.

I swam 250 meters Monday. Today I swam 600 meters. I’m taking incremental increases. Tomorrow, I’m going for 900 meters.

Getting back is the best.