Some clarification on my alleged Misery, partially for myself.

Shitstorms come in threes, when it pains it whores or something like that, yadda yadda yadda. I can't seem to shake the shadow of death lately, though it ain't me in the valley. Once again the nefarious Mr. Vahsen manages to skate along the rim of the volcano, but this time he can't help but take some time to put it in perspective for himself and those who may judge him for his deceivingly pessimistic outlook. I've been thinking about the strange and unfortunate coincidences lately, but the flip-side of the coin was revealed to me in a way unusual to those other than my over-analytical self. See, I was driving to stupid plumbing class, windows down and a cigarette dangling from my lips, when I thought I noticed a friend coming towards me in the opposite lane on his motorcycle. Whenever I see a big, doofy bastard in a bright green jacket on a crotch-rocket of the same color I automatically assume it's him, only this time I was right. He put his hand out to say hello as he passed and I felt embarrassingly special as I braked for the traffic light and joined my fellow rush hour motorists. I took a drag and felt foolishly proud. Yeah, that's right, I know people. Good people. People who wave. And somehow, silly as it sounds, it got me thinking that it's time to acknowledge that the glass is in fact half full, though some of you may have just fallen out of your seats at such an astonishing revelation from your favorite incorrectly labeled misanthrope to stalk.

Without getting too into detail I'll briefly describe the first two-thirds of the recent eye-opener. An important character from the last innocent chapter of my life (yes, I had some of those) was recently diagnosed with a serious illness. A kindred soul with a spirit too different to accommodate just lost a close relative to cancer. (Maybe I should stop smoking.) And the kicker came today at work when word got out that an apprentice from a class two years ahead of me was killed by a drunk driver last night. I heard his last name and wondered if there was any relation to a kid I went to elementary school with since the wake is being held in the town we grew up in. I asked around at the union hall during plumbing class this evening and my assumption was correct, it was my old friend's older brother. Thinking back to the only memory I could really muster up from such an early age I was instantly brought back to the green vinyl seat of a schoolbus sixteen years ago. My friend had a backpack full of X-Men "action figures" (they're not dolls, dammit) that he was pawning off on me for some questionable reason. He briefly explained each superhero's mutant power and shoved them into my bookbag. When I asked him why he was getting rid of them so hastily (OK, so I didn't use that word back then) his succinct reply was that they were his older brother's. I got the vibe that they had gotten into a fight, and though it was wrong of me to accept his vengeful gift, it is highly difficult for an eight-year-old to turn down an entire assortment of new toys. Flash-forward a decade-and-a-half, a few dozen other dolls of sorts, and here I am: a grown-ass man with a dead kid's old toys in his mother's shed somewhere. It's enough to make a guy think twice about his whole immortality complex.

That sort of thing makes me feel bad for spending so much time and energy bitching about the trivialities. Granted, I use this medium to vent on a rather frequent basis, but please don't think by any means that that makes me a miserable human being. A lot of people joke about my so-called Misery, myself included, but it's all in good fun. Most people who take the time to get to know me would probably admit that I am actually a pretty positive person and can even be fun sober, though sometimes at the expense of others. It's more or less an identity thing really; Mike, the Miserable One who gets hammered alone on weeknights and whines about how much certain aspects of his life blow in pretty little stanzas. Don't be fooled, folks. I'm a'ight. In fact, I have a lot to be thankful for: a loving mother who's made more sacrifices than any martyr I know of, a great job with benefits that will allow me to support a family someday, coworkers who have taken me under their wings and filled the void of my estranged sperm-donor of a father, friends whose company is chosen by the beating of their hearts, a rabbit who licks my face and chews my beard when I get home, and maybe a few women who have tried to teach this stubborn prick what love really is. So there you have it, an apology for my favorite passtime. Don't get used to it. I eat haters like you for breakfast.



Currently reading:
"Come On In!" by Charles Bukowski.