The Bostonian Abroad

Was listening to songs of old age and loss and realized something, perhaps deep, perhaps obvious. Probably both, which is usually the case: We are meant to lose. Loss is our refusal to accept that nothing is ours, not even our lives. We lose everything in the end. If we realize and accept that we actually don't have anything anyway, maybe that can free us from the fear of losing. Maybe, knowing that we are going to lose everything will make us savor it more, enjoy it that much more. And maybe it will help us to let go of things when the time comes. Think of all the pain that has come from not wanting to lose something. The fear involved at the thought of loss, followed by the pain of having it gone, and then the interminable pain of regret and that emptiness we just cannot fill. Why not just let it go and move on to the next thing. Enjoy each thing. Get nourishment from it like you do food, and then let it pass on to wherever it is going next. Ahh, but we like things too much. ...

I have an evil twin. He comes out and takes over my body and mind when I am on 30 milligrams for two days in a row. Yesterday was one of those days. Today is a 60 day, so I can really see the sharp contrast between the two personalities I currently exhibit. What is it like to suffer from Generalized Anxiety Disorder (GAD)? (And when I say "suffer," I mean that EVERYONE around me suffers as well.) When the "real" me, the undrugged me, comes to the fore and takes the wheel, everything is different. It is not that any stimulus triggers the anger or rage, it is that the anger or rage is simply stuck in the "on" position. I could be in a stimulus-free environment, with the perfect air temperature, food, drink, and comfort, and I would still be borderline furious, wanting to destroy the entire universe. Yesterday, all day, I was raving, passionate about the littlest thing, adamant about it all, and wanting to argue with every detail, every minute fabric...

This is my second tattoo. People say that once you get your first tattoo, you get addicted and want more and more. This is not the case with me. I have always wanted more than one, and I think this time in my life is where my tattoo getting shall begin. My rationale is that I am old enough now where I know the difference between whim and serious desire. I also know the ramifications of permanent alteration to the body. Further, my skin has been damaged by life: precancerous moles removed, leaving scars, sun damage, pock marks from acne, wrinkles, stretch marks from long-disappeared muscles, and just plain old age-wrinkled skin. Why not choose my damage? And what of how I will look when I am 80? Won't my tattoos look stupid when I am 80? Well, assuming I even live that long, and it ain't looking so good from the looks at my genetic inheritance, IF I make it to 80, my skin will be so fucked up that a tattoo will only blend in to the fucked-upedness, and it will probably make ...

This is the tattoo I got for my broken, stupid leg. It is in Ogham and in Irish and says I will not take shit from evil. Another tattoo is coming. It is the result of a saga of near quest-like proportions. You see, I have had to learn the hard way just how fucked up the tattoo profession really is. There are really no standards as to who can set up shop or what a real tattoo artist actually is. Here are some of the bullshit experiences I have had in just the last three months of trying to get a fucking tattoo. You're supposed to get a personal recommendation, so I did. It didn't pay off. I went to Warlock's because a friend of mine said she liked it. That was 20 years ago. Cut to me, standing in front of the tattoo dude at Warlock's. He is looking at me with a kind of smirk. It says, who the fuck is this middle-aged nerd, coming in here to get a tramp stamp or some shit. He looked entirely disinterested and like I was wasting his precious time as a cool tattoo d...