home for the pre-maturely aged

As I’ve gotten older I’ve become less able to rebound from unpleasant experiences. I’ve already bitched about not getting enough sleep last night. Well, when I laid down for a nap this afternoon, the phone started ringing.

Uncle Mo Ron was on this side of the bay. It’s become a sort of common courtesy to alert other family members when he pops up. Uncle Mo turns up for one reason and one reason only — because he wants something and that something is almost always money.

Well, my retarded cousin via Uncle Mo’s brother, Uncle Red, called with the customary alert. But since we were trying to sleep here, he got the machine. He got the machine somewhere between five and 10 times. He left exactly zero messages. Jesus.

Anyway, Mo loomed in and ranted and raved and ate a sandwich and took a care package. He is one of the least pleasant people on this earth to have to endure. Therefore, I generally don’t. My grandmother let him in. He’s her son. He’s her problem. Thing is, she’s in no shape to have to deal with such a depraved bastard.

Anyway, the Red clan continued to call for updates over the course of Mo’s visit. God damn. In the three hours since noon the phone has rang a minimum of a dozen times. I’m disinclined to answer it when I’m at my best. It’s going through my head like a hot spike this afternoon.

The point was that it’s very difficult for me to reset these days. In all probability the day’s going to end up being even more fucked up than it was before the phone barrage and the moron’s visit. I’m trying to put it behind me but it’s not easy. In a week or so the guitar will be an excellent reset button. My fingers are so fucking sore right now, though, that I don’t think I could fake a number if my life depended on it. I do it to myself.


2 Responses to “home for the pre-maturely aged”

  1. 1 Arkay June 6, 2008 at 5:44 pm

    I do SO understand ‘family alert’ lines. IF they work, they are a Godsend. Tho the requsite avoidance measures can be a real pain.

    Wishing you working callouses asap for your fingers. I want you strummin’ an pluckin’ and not worryin’ about the phone ringing, well, like, yesterday.

  2. 2 Greybeard June 6, 2008 at 9:07 pm

    I get out done with myself for having so little patience with Mo Ron. He really didn’t need to be an alcoholic on top of crazy-dumb-ass. Such is life though. And I didn’t do it to the mother-fucker. Well, this mother-fucker, yeah, but not that one.

    My fingers made a lot of progress during the afternoon session. They’re really sore but not so sore that I can’t play a little. Anyway, from your pen to god’s ear I guess.

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