This One is Too Long

It seems like I'm developing a strange relationship with this blog. I might be the only person who notices this is happening, though I've discussed it with a few friends who would probably prefer I stop talking about it all the fucking time.

I'm gonna start cussing more in this blog too, so I hope you can fucking handle it. Someone once told me (a PHD in political science, not that it matters) that profanity is the mascot for the bush-league of the simple minded (my words). He specifically condemned Quentin Tarantino for his excessive use of profanity. I completely fucking disagree. profanity adds color. It forms a statement into what you really mean instead of a stiff approximation. Profanity is trenchant, it's very difficult to be such without it.

Back to this blog. I mentioned a couple posts ago, when I was feeling a bit jaded, that having cancer gives me a strict compulsion toward being extremely candid with people (it also gives me a strict compulsion to kiss pretty girls when I see them. Which I have done). There certainly is a time to be blunt and a time not to be, and more and more I'm having a hard time telling where that line is. I want to be so candid in these writings, but I KNOW I will be hurting feelings, being off-putting, alienating, divisive, etc, etc, etc.

I feel like my head is exploding.

I hate being in this situation. I've said it a million times. I can't say it enough. I hate it. I am truly beset on all sides with darkness and death. I'm sorry for being so BLUNT but it's just what I'm dealing with. I'm sure everyone has heard me rail against complaining and complainers, yet here I am. I'm sorry to my siblings and parents, it must be very painful to read things like this. Why do I do this?

Perhaps I'm just confused.

I want to paraphrase a Mark Twain quote I know I must have put in here somewhere. I'm not going to look it up, but here's the gist:

I'm not afraid of death. I was dead for millions of years before my birth, yet I have experienced more pain, sorrow, anguish, misery in my 33 years then in the whole combined millennia before my birth, and it is with anticipation that I await returning to that restful place of pure non existence.

(this doesn't mean I WANT to die, but it's just a unique way of looking at something so soaked in sorrow)

Why am I writing this? I have no idea.

There are so many layers to this. I'm not going to use an onion analogy, don't worry. I cannot comprehend the complexities involved with all my bullshit, yet I fall asleep amidst them and wake up with them in my face. Alone.

I know I have an army of supporters behind me. I know this. I know there are probably more then I realize. In fact, I'm going to go ahead and intentionally hallucinate that every person in every "Moose Lodge" all across this great, great country thinks about me all the time. They spend meetings (do they have meetings) discussing me and my cancer. Manute Bol is in the Moos Lodge (or was) so don't be so quick to clown those motherfuckers.

I should stop typing right this instant, but I'm going to keep going. I'm really tempted to highlight this whole thing and delete it, which, when you think about it, is a ridiculous thing to actually type out. Don't I have anything better to do with my time then type out meaningless sentences? I don't even type that fast, though I certainly type faster then I did before. (Yes, I just ended that sentence with a preposition, and if you don't like it, you may eat shit).

Fuck, I'm rambling.

I feel like I'm beating around a subject I want to discuss, but I don't want to outrightly bring it up. Do you ever do this? It's like diet, low-cal manipulative behavior. The problem is I have no idea what the fuck I'm talking about. I don't know what I'm eluding to. Something though...

This blog post is getting pretty long. I wonder if they have a limit on how long these fuckers can be. I'm going to keep going and shame myself further. Are you ready for more Joshua embarrassment? (Seriously, I'm not that embarrassed. Ok maybe a little...)

I've discovered I can't hold a relationship together. I won't go into detail, but being in a committed relationship while going through everything is a near impossibility. However, I've been realizing that I greatly miss being touched. I know I hug friends when I see them and stuff, and I'm not talking about completely sexual touch, but it's not something I would necessarily have my mother provide. Spooning. Stuff like that. I swear, I'm about to buy a body pillow or something. I'm trying to find some work-arounds.

Just look at all this complaining I've been doing. I can already see the comments telling me I deserve to complain. I don't.

Ok, seriously. I'm fucking done. I can't believe I'm going to hit "PUBLISH POST" on this piece of shit.