I swam a mile today, took me 59’52”, but I swam a mile. I felt righteously tired afterwards, the feeling I have when I do something I’m supposed to do.

Tomorrow, if I wake up in time, I’m going to an Al-anon meeting, because I’m a hot mess around codependency, with R, my elder son. Having an alcoholic in one’s life is a nightmare. I can’t give them their recovery. That recovery is that alcoholic’s responsibility.

Wish me luck.

Why is it that older women who like sex are cougars, but older men with a functioning libido and corresponding anatomy are dirty old men?

Doesn’t seem fair, does it? As an older man who can get it up, both in my head and further down, sexual intimacy is one of the great joys of life. Of course, during the lusting phase, excessive ogling is awkward and embarrassing to both the ogler, and the ogled.

Then again, I suspect women still want to know that they’re wanted, as in hike up their skirt, and pull down their panties wanted.

Everything is supposed to balance out, The husband and wife being equally randy, particularly for each other. But it never has quite worked out that way. King David was married when he got the hots for Bathsheba, and she for him. Her hubby, Uriah the Hittite, ended up with the short end of that stick.

So human behaviour hasn’t changed much since the Late Bronze Age. We now have firearms, electric vibrating dildoes, nuclear weapons, and Pop-tarts. Still cocks still get hard and pussies still get wet.

May it ever be so.

Who wishes that you should be unknown, unremembered? Who else? But a small and puny creature who can seduce a crowd of cowards, but trembles before the valiant, even the memory of the valiant. Fittingly, the valiant have no uses for another Alberich. We take our comfort in knowing this Niebelung will also be vanquished

Their fathers were once heroes, alas, they are mere punks. Old punks, dead punks at that.

The world has plenty of room for tenured fools.

Yesterday, I went swimming ,1000 meters. It was a satisfying swim, followed by a shower,a shave of where I don’t want hair on my face and neck. I met another member and had a pleasant chat. Then I went to an AA meeting, where I discovered I really do need my hearing aids, yet again.

After an evening devoted to no particular activity, except laundry, I awaited J’s return from work.

Today I was backsliding in my NO TV regime, until I turned the set off. I went back to reading and writing in the quiet, with a continuo provided by the ever present tinnitus.

I see where they’ve made some formatting changes at Automattic, that I’m too lazy to either figure out or change.

This is the day I start to do things different. I know that “differently” is the proper word, adverb, not adjective. Today I sit on my rocker, on my porch, listening to the birds, amplified through my hearing aids, breathing in the fragrance of sandalwood, burning from Japanese sticks, watching, no, lusting, after my neighbour, as she walks her fat dogs.

She wears the same pink oversized tee shirt that covers her bum, drawing my eyes to it, in her vain attempt to conceal it. “It’s an ass to be proud of, woman.” is all I can think, just as that ponytail is ready for me to pull if I ever get to fuck her.

Inside, the sink has an assortment of dirty dishes,Rubbermaid containers, and their brick red lids. Now I will leave the birds. The incense has burned down. My coffee is cold, The woman has gone inside. Now I will too.

It is impossible to make a woman happy. They will find something to be upset about. They will take that upset out on a spouse.

If you have children from prior marriage(s), those children are her enemies. Because you might love them more than you love her. If those children upset me, my wife gets mad at them, which doesn’t help me. If I tell her dealing with her upset and the adult child’s upset, is doubly agonising, she piles on.

It’s not like she doesn’t know that my son can be opinionated, stubborn, and immature, at times. But when he gets that way, she chooses to be bitchy, too.

If you have kids, and get divorced, do not remarry. Even if that person can suck the chrome off a tailpipe.

End of rant.

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.