So I got my sites up and running. Two sites. At least with a little bit of traffic on both, and a lot more on one. Enough to cover the hosting costs, after I get my first payout since starting these back up again. Good start. On target to earn enough to get a payout a month from one of the revenue streams, with some of the other streams looking at every other month, and then whenever some things sell and I get some commissions. Affiliate marketing is fun, once it pays. Now I just need to stop micromanaging them and checking the ad stats and visitor ticker every 10 minutes like a push-button monkey. Hence I’m here.

It’s been a while. Gary and I have been off drinking and being morose and letting life happen to us instead of throttling life by the neck and having our way with its face. Mainly been the booze. We got an entry in there from september that we don’t feel like posting, but its there regardless. Anyway.

September was supposed to be prep month for October, Sober October particularly, which in itself was a prep for No Nothing November, and then whatever silly alliteration I could muster for continue-doing-nothing-December. A sherman’s-march of sobriety to the end of the year, a fasting of bad habits and the vices that drive them, a hopeful reset of the guts and the heavy feeling in my stomach that will just get heavier with all those winter foods. And maybe pick up some good habits along the way and drive them in with a sledgehammer. I’ve wanted a fasting period like this for ages, felt like I need it in my bones just to shake em out. I certainly did a good job at prep for all this, Gary was laughing the whole time next to me and pounding cans into hands the whole time. I should bring the empties to the dump and throw them into the recycle bin one by one by one and count them aloud just to drive it home. Should. Should isn’t a good word.

My father lost his leg to diabetes. He “did it” on my birthday, or at least the events that led to all this eventual amputation was discovered on my birthday, thankfully after I had eaten loads of fire-charred beef and garlic. That pork-esque festering smell didn’t have to ruin my good meal, that nice meaty steak flavor. Just ruined the next month, the month after that. Ruined time. And deliberately wasted time, in hindsight.

Broken floors through his house (not their house, his) that Gary and I were going to fix. Went out and bought the wood, found all the saws and nails and screws in storage (a fucking adventure itself), spend a week of time wasted miscommunicating with a friend about help, go to do it myself, only to get threatened with having the cops called on me. For repairing his (his toilet, his leak, his rotted floor, his shaky punky wood) floor. So his wheelchair doesn’t drop through the fucking thing as he teeter-totteringly hobbles about on his one leg and doesn’t hit that nice spot right near the front of the toilet that’s really soft and about to drop out.

It was a nice reminder of the last couple years and the realizations that I have been having, but am following to closely to the instilled paternal’s instinct to deny deny deny until you die. I used to think that line from Entourage was funny, Ari telling that man with the box of dildos to “deny until you die, pal” as the mans wife comes down to accost him. See that line in a totally different light now. Dad still thinks he don’t got the diabetes (he does). Dad still thinks he don’t have dementia, even the beginnings of dementia, not even memory problems (oh, he do). Dad still thinks he’s gonna get his leg without any intervention from himself and no exercise and not taking care of the amputation wound or even showering (oh no he fucking ain’t). It’s funny, he complained in the hospital constantly about not being able to shower for a week here, a week there, and then he gets home and cleared to shower and do it all himself, “independent” as he put it in the rehab on that nice whiteboard, and the man is stinkier than a pig trough after two weeks of no showers and not cleaning his wound or his tight compressor brace made of felt and velcro and nice absorbent fabrics. He’s showered once. I think it was after he shit himself (week-long constipation, stool softeners, milk of magnesia and then the heavy-duty colonoscopy-juice citrate stuff) but I also think he’s shit himself again since. But he’s not depressed. And doesn’t have dementia. Or diabetes. And certainly isn’t spiraling out about any of this and lashing out at everyone around him since he can’t accept responsibility in whatever paradigm he’s built for the world in his head.

And I see it now. Pretty clear. Clearer than the last few years, where I’ve been picking up a lesson here and there, a chapter there and here, and now I’ve got the Book in front of me and I can see the theme of the book and the overall knowledge it was meant to teach. I always had a memory that stood out, a chapter in a book by a David that I never read since I couldn’t accept it at the time I came across it, but that title always stood out. “Chapter 2: Live as if your father is dead.” I should go back and read that and see if I can pick up something.

I see my mothers reaction to all of this. Gary is cheering her on with giant fucking pom-poms cause he’s an ass like that and he likes the entropy and ensuing chaos. Little brat. Both of them. Never been hit with a better example of Briffault’s Law than this one. She signed the contract though, and since she still has a working memory (still the oldest teenager in the house’s memory) I can reminder of that and she can huff around in reality for a while. She treats him like shit, but he’s treated her like a dog and shit and dogshit for years by now, back and forth back and forth, like pooping, endlessly, for years and years, and I can’t remember who started it or who fired first or what. But it’s not my job to remember, and that’s the lesson. I can’t control these people, even though I have this weird biological attachment to both of them and instinctually want to just treat them like dolls and plant them down together and sternly say, like an imaginative boy to his GIjoes, “you play nice now!” and then explosions sounds. Can’t do that. Can’t do that to anyone but myself. And I’m so much of a handful that apparently I can’t even control my own urges and behaviors, so what the fuck am I doing trying to control anyone elses?

Especially if those people are just going to call the cops on me for making sure they don’t fall through the goddamned floor.

Don’t micromanage your sites. Don’t let Gary keep checking the stats either. One domino down, what’s next in line?