Join Us in Despair

You know when you were a kid and your diary was full of angst and woe-is-me-ness? That is what this blog is for. Lost your job, dog is sick, someone stole your parking spot, crashed your car, just generally glum? This is the place to put all that lovely grey and those long drawn out sighs.

Lists of sad songs. Depressing movie reviews. Top ten reason to stay in bed. All things not happy. Bring them here.

Are you sick, are you tired? Have you been sick & tired for a year? Share it here. Unhappy, gloomy, dismal, down in the dumps, miserable only. Did you have a bad day, a month... share. Not that tragedy and despair can't be funny, contributors are welcome to make their posts goofy, witty, laugh-out-loudable, just not happy or upbeat.

Would you like to be part of the DD&D project? Do you have a sad story, a rant, a poem of a lost love? Join us as a contributor.

Friday, January 30, 2009

Ill Lit...

Gothic Lolita

Gothic Lolita by Emilie Autumn

How old are you?
I'm older than you'll ever be
I've been dead a thousand years
And lived only two or three
I don't mind telling you
My life was ended by your hand
The kind of murder where nobody dies
But I don't suppose you'd understand
Call off the search
We've found her

If I am Lolita
Then you are a criminal
And you should be killed
By an army of little girls
The law won't arrest you
The world won't detest you
You never did anything
Any man wouldn't do
I'm Gothic Lolita
And you are a criminal
I'm not even legal
I'm just a dead little girl
But ruffles and laces
And candy sweet faces
Directed your furtive hand
I perfectly understand
So it's my fault?
No, Gothic Lolita

Thank you, kind sirs
You've made me what I am today
A bundle of broken nerves
A mouthful of words I'm still afraid to say
I don't mind telling you
Now that I'm old enough to love
I couldn't begin to even if
My pretty life depended on it
And funny thing, it does
Call off the search
We've found her

If I am Lolita
Then you are a criminal
And you should be killed
By an army of little girls
The law won't arrest you
The world won't detest you
You never did anything
Any man wouldn't do
I'm Gothic Lolita
And you are a criminal
I'm not even legal
I'm just a dead little girl
But ruffles and laces
And candy sweet faces
Directed your furtive hand
I perfectly understand
So it's my fault?
No, Gothic Lolita

I am your sugar
I am your cream
I am your anti-American dream

I am your sugar
I am your cream
I am your worst nightmare
Now scream

If I am Lolita
Then you are a criminal
And you should be killed
By an army of little girls
The law won't arrest you
The world won't detest you
You never did anything
Any man wouldn't do
I'm Gothic Lolita
And you are a criminal
I'm not even legal
I'm just a dead little girl
But ruffles and laces
And candy sweet faces
Directed your furtive hand
I perfectly understand
So it's my fault?
No, Gothic Lolita

Wednesday, January 28, 2009

Easy Targets

Shooting the people closest to me is a failing that only got cured when there was no one left to shoot.

Hollow Hills

Hollow Hills by Bauhaus

Ancient Earth work fort and barrow
Discreetly hide their secret abodes
The most fearful hide deep inside
And venture not there upon Yuletide

For invasion of their hollow hills
That music hold and Oberon fill
Is surely recommended not
For fear of death, in fear of rot

Hollow hills
Hollow hills
Hollow hills
Hollow hills

Baleful sounds and wild voices ignored
Ill luck disaster the one reward
Violated sanctity of supermen's hills
So sad, love lies there still
So sad
So sad
Hollow hills
Hollow hills
Witches too and goblin too and speckled sills
Lament repent oh mortal you
So sad
So sad

-------== ==-------

back to top

Tuesday, January 27, 2009

Poor Donny Vol. 1

My Own Space

I need a little now and then
Some time for me
Away from it all
Without obligation to anyone
My own space

I need a little now and then
Hearing without noise
In a quiet place
Leaving questions unanswered
My own space

I need a little now and then
Words without speech
Drifting through my mind
No one to listen
My own space

I need a little now and then
Guilt left behind me
In search of freedom
Releasing inner desires
My own space

I need a little now and then
My own space

Hannah’s Dream

"All… most… there,” he said, grunting into her ear.

She clenched her teeth fighting the urge to vomit. This was the final payment necessary. Just this one last time.

With a guttural moan he at last rolled off her body.

"Was it worth it Hannah?” he asked, his meaty hand still groping at her. He seldom called her by name, preferring instead horrid little nicknames that made her ache inside. Hannah curled on her side moving away from his sweaty hand.

Was it worth it? Such a question to ask after extracting such a payment. But Hannah would not allow herself the luxury of regret now. She had made the final payment and now it was hers.

Hannah moved from the bed and into the tiny bathroom. A small trickle of brown water was all that came from the rusted faucet. She splashed her face and then ran the small grimy towel under the water. She knew she couldn’t get truly clean, but it was enough just to scrub his stench from her skin.

"So are you really sure it’s worth the risk? Why do you want it so bad?” he yelled at her from the bed.

That was all she could take. She had paid him in full; the very idea of having to explain herself to him made her nearly as sick as the act she had just submitted herself to.

"Don’t, don’t you dare, ask me these things you man. Is it worth the risk?” she said as she buttoned her worn dress glaring at him. "Don’t you for a moment think I don’t know the risk. I know all too well, torture, death, or worse. Yes, men will always think of something worse. As for why I want it? How could I ever begin to explain that to you.” Hannah spat at him as he lay there; flaccid, fat, sweaty, man. "I paid you well for it. I paid for your silence too. It is mine now, and I want it."

"Fine, go take it. It’s out there on the shelf, one of the few left in the territory. I suppose you’ve earned it,” he said, tugging up his trouser, but not bothering to fasten them. He followed her into the main room, and watched as she took it from the shelf. She clutched it to her chest. Her excitement at owning such a treasure caused her to become almost lightheaded. She made her way to the cash register.

"Put your mark here, so I know it is paid for in full. Here, sign here, that I have paid you.” Hannah thrust the worn bit of paper that he had marked with her debt just over a month ago.

"Why you want to keep the receipt? That’s just more proof of your disregard for the laws. They can track this you know?” He snatched for the scrap of paper, but Hannah held it tight, pointing to where she wanted his signature.

"I won’t ever be coming back, but you mark it none the less. That way we both know this is paid for. I paid your price. I want you to sign!”

He licked his lips and sneered at her, but did as she asked, putting his big black letters on the little bit of paper with its unintelligible scribbles that he had used to claim her body.

Hannah turned away from him then. She made her way out of the dank store and into the street, breathing deeply the cold air of life. The setting sun provided no warmth for her as she stepped over the rubble and trash that littered the broken sidewalk. As quick as she could she made her way through the maze of alleys and back streets towards her small home.

"You, you there, girl. You there, stop!” Came the order from behind her. Hannah tried not to scream in surprise and sudden dread. She turned and watched the two uniformed men descend from the end of the alley towards her.

"Where are you going so fast little one?” The taller of the two asked.

"Home, Sir. I know I have broken curfew, but really I couldn’t help it Sir, really."

"You know you are not allowed out without a man as escort after the final bell.”

The smaller, weasely looking of the two said, poking at her with his night-weapon for emphasis.

"I know Sir. That’s why I was hurrying. I only live there, just up there.” Hannah pointed to the crumbling brick building that loomed next to them.

"What is your classification girl?"

"I am F14, Sir."

"Let me see your papers.”

Hannah struggled to keep her purchase tucked under her arm, beneath her dress, as she fumbled in her pocket for her papers. She thrust them at the two holding her breath. They hadn’t noticed she was hiding something, yet.

"It says here you’ll be ready for service next month. See right here, where it shows your birthday. You’ll be ready to be military issue then.” The weasely one lifted her chin with his night-weapon, his lecherous look made Hannah’s skin crawl. "It also says here you live across the city. Look here, read that address.”

Hannah dropped her eyes, wondering if they could smell her terror. "I can’t, Sir. Please you know I can’t. But, I know the address is wrong. We were forced to move in the last bombing, no new papers have been issued."

"Of course you can’t read it. And that is the way it will stay now that we have taken charge. Stupid illiterate women are only good for one thing, now.” Then to Hannah’s relief he said, "Go on. But don’t think I won’t remember your name and request you special. In just a month, little Hannah."

The two sentries laughed at her as she hurried away. She knew she had been luckier than most. Such encounters usually resulted in rape or often worse. Even though the military were provided with as many fifteen year old girls as they wanted, most still thought it was their right to take by force any strays they found on the street.

Hannah locked the door behind her after at least reaching the safety of home. "Momma, I have it. This is the key Momma.” Hannah dropped onto the floor next her mother, who sat silently in the worn chair, the only piece of furniture in the room. She looked up into her mother’s once beautiful face. Hannah opened it for the first time then, and solemnly traced the letters on the page. "S, see I know that is an S, Momma. It says, ‘See Jane run.’” Hannah struggled to sound out the precious words that Momma had tried to teach her using only dust and her finger so many years ago now. But that was before they had taken Momma’s eyes, eyes that had been taught to read before the annexation. Now Momma only had empty, sunken sockets where her pretty blue eyes had once been. But Hannah knew now she would learn, and she would read to Momma. Yes, she would learn, then she would teach others, and with knowledge they would fight, fight and win back their freedom. This was Hannah’s dream, something she would sacrifice everything for. Hannah read on, ‘See Jane run. Run Jane run.’

Monday, January 26, 2009

A Day at the Office

It was this morning’s demand for coffee no cream,
yes, it was that moment that popped my spine in two.
I flopped around my cubicle in mild confusion
as limbs unable to communicate with
brain tried independently to give
two weeks notice.

The boss looked over the cubicle wall and,
observing I was busy and productively flopping,
obviously getting the job at hand,
left or right?, done,
walked away with the sure knowledge that
he’d inspired.

One arm reached for the phone,
one for the computer keyboard and both
pinky fingers tapped out their individual SOS,
all the while, left big toe flipped the Rolodex round
searching, in vain?, for the toll free number
to sanity.

when i die...

when i die
i hope no one who ever hurt me cries
and if they do cry
i hope their eyes fall out
and a million maggots that had made up their brains
crawl from the empty holes
and devour the flesh
that covered the evil that passed itself off as a person
that i probably tried to love

~nikki giovanni

Sunday, January 25, 2009

Missing Time

Hello empty ones. I'm brand new here. My name is Eve Noir. Please welcome me into your miserable arms. I will probably be the lyrics girl here. God, I love one too many sad/dark songs. I love this song...I always like to say the line "Black is everything." Well, isn't it true?

Missing Time by MDFMK

Black is everything
Pull me right out of reality

The emptiness that's me

Black is everything

Put me right out of my misery

Do what you want to me

Life outside goes on

The world is crashing inside out

Gently hacking off the hinges

Erase the space, erase the memory

Missing time

What I don't know will never hurt me

Missing time

Cannot forget cannot remember

Missing time

This information is forever

Missing time

Black is everything

Got the answer right in front of me

It's everything I see

Time ouside moves on

The world I know is crumbling down

Bringing to a lost sensation

Erase the space, erase the memory

Missing time

What I don't know will never hurt me

Missing time

Cannot forget cannot remember

Missing time

This information is forever

Missing time

Erase the space, erase the memory

Missing time

What I don't know will never hurt me

Missing time

Cannot forget cannot remember

Missing time

This information is forever

Missing time

Missing time...

Missing time...

Missing time...

Missing time...

Friday, January 23, 2009

11 p.m. - 2 a.m.

I know this is a bit hard to see, but this is right behind my house, last night, at about midnight. I turned off the flash on the camera so as not to appear totally Mrs. Cravetz.

We live in a nice, quiet, California suburban neighborhood. It is usually lovely and peaceful at midnight. But last night at about 11 p.m. the girl in the white car got in a fight with her boyfriend behind our house. Screaming and caterwauling (that is probably an archaic word, but I think it fits her fit) and he was screaming and cussing and the quiet peace was quite broken. And I was awake.

And then the cops came, and their lights shown into our bedroom window flashing blue and red. And they talked, and the girl screamed some more and the guy took off and the cop cars chased him around the neighborhood and I was awake. Then the fire truck came, because apparently in all this someone hit someone else and someone had to be examined and of course it makes perfect sense to send out the huge diesel fire truck and have it too park right behind my house at a nice and steady idle. Sheesh. And at some point the poor little boy who was in the car through all of this chaos could be heard calling out, "Mommy, I have to go potty." He repeated this about ten times and my heart just broke for a child in this situation.

So from 11 p.m. to 2 a.m. I was awake, and irritated and today, I am beyond tired. People just need to be... well... just take better care of your precious babies. Don't fight with crazy people on drugs, and please don't do it on the street behind my house.

Thursday, January 22, 2009

Agitated with my agitator

I'm forever doing laundry in this home with four males; my husband and the three little men (oh...okay, and me too...I make dirty laundry too). So, it wasn't unusual for me to begin the day with a load of washing. What was unusual was that I noticed the agitator inside was almost as if it was trying to trick me into believing that it was getting the job done. The noise was right, it sounded like it was working properly. It was moving, too; but it wasn't completely turning.

I've noticed it slipping now and then but not like this morning, it was hardly turning at all. {SIGH} I am, sharing my devastation with you:
Yes, I am AGITATED with my agitator!

Wednesday, January 21, 2009


You know them

They know you

Those feelings of being unhemmed

A person torn into two

Those days

Not so much in full

But seemingly in ways

A moment feels so dull

No talk, No smile, No happy

Just for a minute or more

A feeling not good, to be grumpy

Please just don't come to my door

Blue Monday

Grrrrr!!! I missed knowing it was the most depressing day of the year on Monday, January 19th.

According to Cliff Arnell, a former part-time tutor at Cardiff College, a school that barely wants to acknowledge he was even an employee (their press release after Mr. Arnell made his depressing finding known was..."Cliff Arnall was a former part-time tutor at the university but left in February"), the Monday of the last full week of January has the honor of being the most depressing day of the year. Wikipedia expands on this further should you care to read the pseudo-science on the pseudo-encyclopedia - Blue Monday

Apparently the formula looks like this:

W + (D-d) x TQ
M x NA

The variables are (W)eather, (D)ebt, (d) monthly salary, (T)ime since Christmas, time since failure to (Q)uit a bad habit, low (M)otivational levels and (NA), the need to take action.

Now, it has been quite a while since my last algebra final (which I did get an A- on) but I am not entirely sure this equation makes any mathematical sense. But hurray for some guy to come up with the formula anyway.

So let's see, other potential non-sensical formulas -


Where the variables are (E)xpenses = (P)ay(C)heck + 40. Now this just has to be scientifically true, because no matter how much money I make I seem to always be $40 short by the end of the week.

Where the variable are (H)appiness = (L)oveX(H)ubby-(B)ossX(A)rseness/(K)ids-(L)aundry-(D)ishes

Oh, and here is one more...


Where T is time and B, W, R and E are Blogging, Working, Reading and Everything else equals zero. Yes, I know it doesn't make any sense, but neither does the Monday of the last full week of the year being depressing make any sense.

Tuesday, January 20, 2009

Mmmmm Mmmmmm Mmmmmmm

Mmmmmmm - by Crash Test Dummies which is strangely depressing seamlessly merged with Weird Al's version. Perfectly dysfunctional video.

Monday, January 19, 2009

It Was a Sad Day

Saturday, January 17, 2009


Do NOT click on these links, one of many comments left in the last 5 minutes....

superior has left a new comment on your post "Ho Ho Ho":
cheap handbags

handbags online

luxury handbag

Damn the bots. Do they really think people want to click on their links... sighhhhhh. Seventeen messages in seconds. So the word verification is back on all the blogs. As I really didn't think you wanted their cheap handbags.

Friday, January 16, 2009

Cat's in the Cradle

Always makes me feel sad.

Thursday, January 15, 2009


Dirty pants and cheeks with days old stubble
has the man who sits near the entrance to the department store where
........................I am to get shiny new shoes.
.............Momma says sharply, “Don’t look him in the eye.”

I wonder then what would happen to me
if Momma let me sit there on the cold sidewalk.
........................If I sit next to the man
.............with the stained shirt and black teeth

will all the people wearing shiny shoes
turn away and not look me in the eye?
........................I wonder too if Momma would
.............just walk on by if I sat there

near the entrance to the department store,
a girl with no shiny shoes. Would she look in the eye
........................a girl who was not nearly as perfect outside or in a momma wanted her be?

Wednesday, January 14, 2009

Happy Happy Awards

I am going to break my own rules and share with you some of my exciting and happy news...

In the last hour I have become unbelievably rich just by checking my email...

LUCKY NUMBERS: 8-4-1-9-0-0-5-12
Be informed that you emerged a winner of €1,000,000 (One million Euro) which was conducted this for more details. - I just need to send them a cashiers check for some random amount to collect my winnings.

Dear Sir/Madam, My name is Mr.West Bernard, and I work in the International operation department in a Local Bank here in South Africa On a routine inspection, I discovered a dormant domiciliary account with a BAL Of 36,000,000 (Thirty Six Million USD) on further discreet investigation I also discovered that the account holder has long since passed away(DEAD)leaving no beneficiary to the account the bank will approve this money to any foreigner because the former operator of the A/c is a foreigner and from Iraq in particular and I am certainly sure that he is DEAD and nobody will come again for the claim of this money it is only a foreigner that can claim this money with propear information. I need your cooperation to clear this money from the bank. - All I need to do is give them my bank account number and password.

This is to officially inform you that we have verified your contract file presently on my desk, and I found out that you have not received your payment due to your lack of co-operation and not fulfilling the obligations giving to you in respect to your payment.
We will send you an ATM CARD which you will use to withdraw your money via ATM MACHINE in any part of the world, and the maximum daily limit is ($1,000) However, Note that this method of payment will be granted if it is acceptable to you for the release of your contract/inheritance entitlement.
In View of this, you are advised to contact the Director(CBN, IRD,and ATM) DR.PAUL ADIM for further information with the following contact details; (
You are required to provide the following information:
(1) Your Full Name(2) Full residential address(3) Phone And Fax Number(4) Occupation(5) Age
- Well now I better hurry I have already not been co-operative. I can't wait to be co-operative now so that I can get all this money.

We are pleased to inform you that your e-mail address has won the Swiss On-lineLottery. Therefore you have been approved for a lump sum payout ( £1, 500000.00 ) One Million Five Hundred Thousand Pounds Sterling in the Swiss On-lineLottery program held on 12th January 2009, and released today 14th January 2009. - WOW... two lotteries in one day!!!

So perhaps I will offer up all my bank account numbers, my name, address, phone numbers, first born bambino, toe rings, and a lock of my hair just to be sure I get all these wonderfully kind people want to send me.

What could possibly go wrong with that, these seem like very upfront and honest offers?

P.S. And I just got one more...

However, I hereby seek your consent to cooperate with me so that I canprovide you the winning information that won the prize funds of8,497,985 to enable you apply for the claim of the funds. Once the funds ispaid to you, Our mode of sharing will be on a 50......... 50 basis. i.e 50%will be for me while the remaining 50% will be for you.
All I require from you is your honest cooperation and confidentiality inthis regard to enable us see this transaction through. I guarantee thatthis will be executed under a legitimate arrangement that will protectyou from any breach of the law as I have mapped out all plans to ensure weclaim this funds without any trace in the future.
I look forward to your quick response while thanking you for youranticipated co-operation.
Best regards,Agent Smith - Oh, AGENT Smith, that make him official and I am sure legit.


Okay, the sad part of this post... people fall for this crap. And while these offers are entirely outrageous and easily deleted as Spam, which I did do. Some that come into our email are not so easy to detect. Some cons on the internet suck people in every day. That email that looked exactly like an email from my bank that warned of a credit card charge on my account that was fraudulant. I almost trusted, I almost followed their link. A girl at work actually deposited the cashier check for the car she was selling online and sent the guy back his "extra" money (about $500 I think) that he "mistakenly" wrote the check for. When the cashier's check bounced, she was just out the money.

Be aware, make your parents and children and friends aware, of the cons and the frauds. A good, really good con, can catch anyone unaware.

A few links that might help if you are thinking I really should contact Agent Smith.

Tuesday, January 13, 2009

The Reading

eager words
projectile vomited
onto laps of unimpressed

disdain for spewed
vowels and consonants
shows clearly on faces

unable to clean
the offending mass
of retched verses

I slink away
never to expose
this feeble talent again

"Open Mike 7 P.M. Next Friday"

perhaps just
one more time


And so I sent out this poor little poem and the rejection it got was delightful.

Dear Ms Laura Jayne,

Thank you for your submission of The Reading to our magazine. At this time we do not find a place in our publication for a work that includes the phrase "projectile vomited." We wish you luck in placing this elsewhere.


And now at last I have a place to place it elsewhere. Yeah, I had to create that place, but the sad poem has a place at last.

Monday, January 12, 2009

Radio Silence

Penelope Camille- A True Story

In 7th grade we worked as office monitors. Once, just as the bell rings, she says,"Don't you wonder sometimes what IT is like?" She kisses me softly and walks away.

Throughout high school, I take great pleasure in walking into the auditorium behind her, marveling at her long blond pony tail and blue pleated skirt. I watched as she joined the cheer leading team, dated Doug M. , asked her to write something in my yearbook when we graduated. I lost track of her.

My ex-wife tells me to look up Penelope. Joanne and I are dating after our divorce. Stupid but not uncommon. I find that Penelope makes jewelry in a suburban cluster of buildings fashioned out of a defunct grist mill. I walk in and ask her to make me a ring. "What kind of ring?" she asks. Make something that you would make for the man you would marry. I know that she's 40 years old and single. It's a classic line straight out of old romantic movies.

We begin dating. I'm a free bachelor 2 weeks out of the month. After 16 years of penal servitude as bad guy, chief bread winner and keeper of the realm, I have joint custody of three children-one of which isn't potty trained. Penelope is coming straight out of a crippling relationship. Really, after discovering her lover in coitus on the kitchen table, she is unable to walk. She is confined to her bed for weeks. I'm also seeing a busty music teacher. I cancel a date with Penelope. The date with the well endowed music teacher falls through. 9:30 in the evening, the doorbell rings. My high school sweetheart is at the door. She thrusts a large folded piece of sketch book paper at me, pushes her way inside and tells me , "Read this." She's consumed an unknown amount of wine. The note castigates me for abandoning her. She wants to spend the night. I make sure that the encounter is strictly platonic-which it is, kind of.

After a whirlwind, fairytale Christmas, Penelope decides to join an ashram in Lenox ,Mass. I'm crushed. I sing, "Que sera sera," to myself and wait. In May, she returns with a different attitude. Eight hours of chopping carrots, a daily exercise regimen, fasting, Kuchicha tea and visions of Babjii's feet, she comes back in poor health. She asks me to marry her.

Our wedding was choreographed by Walt Disney. Part Hindu ceremony, part Christian, we hire a bagpiper and a rotund black woman who is the soloist at the symphony. Both force people to their feet. I bring them to their knees with a wedding program that includes excerpts of love letters we exchange before tying the knot. I should have been suspicious when a friend is consoling a sobbing Penelope in the back of the church. Warner Brothers could not make a better movie.

After the ceremony, we ride a white, horse drawn coach to the Women's Club on the lakefront. A 7 piece classical ensemble plays soft music while dinner is served. Rock and roll music straight out of Wedding Crashers and a last minute ceremonial drum session at our new digs rounds off the night.

Let me pause, for a moment while I compact the next 2 years, 7 months and 28 days.

It's late. Penelope isn't home. I'm worried. At midnight I call several hospitals and the district headquarters of the police. Nothing. Nada. Out of curiosity I open the bedroom closet door. All her clothing is gone. No note, no phone call, nothing. Two days later a man approaches me at my place of business. He asks my name and hands me divorce papers.

The following week Penelope and her boyfriend drive up to My house. As I approach their vehicle, I notice he's holding a silver scepter crusted with black onyx and jewels. The sight is so startling, I 'm briefly speechless. He holds it up toward me like they do in the vampire movies. "We want you to leave the house for 30 minutes while Penelope gets her things," he says. I avoid replies that could be cliches with a firm, No. Later she sends the same clown to my business with mortgage papers for my house I need to make payments. I emphasize the my house portion of that statement. I call for backup from the third floor warehousemen and dial the police. They escort him from the building. "Could I have hit him?" I ask one of the boys in blue. "Yes, but then we'd have to take you in also."

Enter Dawn my present wife. Being something of a white witch, she shreds notes from Penelope at the entrance to her jewelry fabrication studio. She returns everything negative Penelope conjures with her own brand of vehemence. Penelope hires an old, crippled crone as a divorce attorney. Here's the last scene before it fades to black:

The County courthouse has three doors. Before the days of metal detectors and security, all three are unlocked. I gaze up at Justice and walk in the door. At the elevator, I push the up button. The door opens. There's Penelope in a green shapeless wool smock. She looks like a nun kicked out of the convent. I gape and mutter, "I think I'll wait for the next car."

There's more, but I have been told by my superiors to rig for silent running and maintain radio silence.

SD 24 - Pitts 35

It was a very strange season. But now it is over.

I do love sports.

But, it does make me sad that we are done for this season.

I am entirely not a fan of our current coach, Norv Turner. I think he is a poor decision maker and really doesn't care that much.

The Chargers played well late in the season. And Phillip Rivers has become a leader who really took charge and made things happen. This Sunday though we were just unable to overcome a superior defense, had some strangely bad breaks and made some costly errors.

So now, it is wait again until next season.

Sunday, January 11, 2009

One Stolen Day

Yesterday morning the heavens opened and grey water fell from the grey sky, but I couldn't care less as unexpectedly the pain had lifted and it felt good just to go out - just to go out and enjoy being out, soaked through to the skin but full of hope that a corner had been turned.

On the happiness questionnaire they ask "have you stopped enjoying things you used to do" and the answer is "aye" but yesterday I wanted to do them all again, settling for what could be fitted into a single day - a trip to a new town, new food, new accents - buying gifts for people who wont be expecting anything.

Home, soaked and dripping water all over the floor, happier than I've been in 3 months.

A long wonderful night of just talking to a friend without having to say "sorry" every time I had to pause and count to 10 to regain composure. Wild flights of fantasy, silliness and seriousness, laughter to the point of hysterics.

"The you today has been completely different.. its you ..."

Last night I got to sleep soundly for the first time in weeks, and I needed no second invite to catch up on the darkness, and wow, to remember dreaming for the first time in ages.

When I got up, there was the pain, right where I left it - not a gradual slide back in, but more the cell door being slammed and the guard welcoming you back - "lovely day out was it, we might let you have another in 10 years.."

One Stolen Day Out of Time - that's really what its all about isn't it - whats that song by Elbow.. "One day like this a year will see me right"....

One perfect day, a recharged soul and a return to who I am. I can choose to hold onto that and face this head on - "I know you can be beaten my friend, you don't own me", or I can fall further down, more aware than ever of what it has taken and can continue to hold from me.

One Stolen Day - but who stole from who?

Lost Dog

Lost dog--are there any sadder words? I read that posted on the telephone pole near my house, and there was a picture of a mournful beagle in black and white, fixing his gaze on me as I drove past. If you lose your dog, the world as you know it ends. None of the things you need to do are really needs. In fact, you forget all about them and focus on putting up contact information and pictures of your dog everywhere. Your kids go nuts. They won't go to soccer or ballet, instead they'll stay home and cry, call their friends and cry, post on Facebook and cry. They will somehow decide it's your fault, but that won't make you feel any worse than you already do.
I saw a documentary on the Katrina disaster in New Orleans. I felt terrible for the people, but the sign that really broke my heart was the huge black letters straggling over the white clapboard house: NO DOG FOUND. Three words carrying a whole tureen of grief. Movies sometimes capture this feeling. I still feel miserable each time I think about Sounder. He was a dog beloved by a sharecropping family's boy. The boy's dad stole food, was caught, and went to prison, and Sounder disappeared. The boy's dream about a happy return of both dad and dog was so heartbreaking. Where are my tissues?

S&G Being Danglely Sad

Saturday, January 10, 2009

Cheery Directives Picked Apart

I am sure this is supposed to be something to make you feel happy and upbeat, full of possibilities, but let us take another look.

Walk in the rain...
and get wet and cold.
Smell the flowers...
and have your hay fever kick up and turn your eyes red and your nose stuffy.
Build sandcastles...
and get gritty, dirty sand in really icky places.
Go on field trips...
and pay too much for admission, and for lunch, eat fried foods, lose your car keys, step on a bee, get a bad churro and be sick on the way home.
Find out how things work...
by sticking a fork in a toaster and twitching for two hours.
Tell stories...
that no one appreciates and they only critique your grammar and laugh when you say you are going to write the great novel of the century.
Say the magic words...
and turn your car into a giant turtle.
Trust the universe...
I would never recommend this, it will surely be a very bad idea. Always beware the Universe.

And just who the heck does Mr. Williamson think he is? Kind of a bossy guy isn't he? Can you imagine going on a date with him? He might call you up and say...

Be pretty,
be happy,
be happy happy,
be joy joy,
be a pleasant, and upbeat, and cheery.
Be ready at 7:30.

Friday, January 9, 2009

Forget your misery?

The neurobiologists have developed a drug that can selectively delete memories of rats and mice. They speculate it might be useful for humans too. I could be interested. I'm sorry I remember certain things. For example, my mother held my hand (so I couldn't flee) and made me go to ask Will for my tricycle back. I had given it to him that morning. My knees still shake when I think about knocking on his door. I'd love to forget the day I realized I could go to the senior prom after all, when I'd thought the date conflicted with a trip. I called Mac to let him know, and of course he had another date he'd asked meanwhile. He was so agonizingly polite it still sets my teeth on edge to remember it. And then, I suppose I feel guilt and sadness about my part time job in college, where I cut the heads off fruit flies. I needed the money. The guilt comes in because I invested each fly with a personality and name derived from dentists, professors of mathematics and physics, bad dates from the Naval Academy, etc. So, if you're sad, take heart. Soon the scientists will give you pills, and like Alice, you'll lose all contact with reality.

I Hope You Can Laugh

Bored. Can't breathe. Can't go outside. Don't feel good. Tired of looking out the window. Can't write. Don't want to clean the house. Can't get excited 'bout nothing. Don't want to climb on the roof and look at the chimney. Don't want to walk around the house, lost, anymore. Don't feel like having a beer. Barking at everyone. Need someone to talk to, but nobody comes out here in the sticks. Can't think up any projects. Need something to occupy my mind and fingers, but I don't want to have to think. Tired of music, tired of the same old stuff. Can't even move the furniture around. Too darn lazy to feel the blues. I should whittle something, but I don't know what. I know this day will end up wasted. It really shouldn't. The only thing that makes me feel better is writing this. Even turned down a sloppy kiss from the dog. Things have been like this before and each time I don't figure a way out of the tunnel. If you know how, please tell me. Please, please don't suggest a movie. I hope you can laugh.


Ok, this one is beautifully sad.

This is a cover by Johnny Cash of Nine Inch Nails' Trent Reznor's song Hurt.

Thursday, January 8, 2009

5.0 at first, but now just 4.5

That little orange square there in the middle is us tonight, well about 8 miles away from us. 5.0 when I first looked at the Recent Earthquake Site, but now it has been changed to 4.5. Alas, no acutal devastation to report.

Well this at least looks a little more impressive. Our earthquake tonight is this big bit of green here on the bottom.


Love this website and their too often true and usually funny Demotivational Posters.
Sad thing is... I have two Motivational Posters in my office...
One says... Cherish Today... One... Believe & Succeed.
Some days I shoot paperclips at them for target practice.

Little Girl Perfect - An Utterly Sad Short Story

When she returned Mommy didn’t say everything would be all right as Christa hoped she would. Instead she ordered Christa to bed while pulling crumpled bills from her purse to pay the sitter. After shutting the front door, Mommy turned and slumped against it. Then with a sigh she combed her fingers through her messy hair. Christa stood in the hallway silently watching. This small act of defiance, this not going immediately to bed when told, made her young heart beat uncomfortably hard. Christa always did exactly what she should and even this one tiny misdeed struck fear inside her. Day in and day out she worked hard at her self appointed task, for if she were good enough everything would be okay. If she could only make everyone happy, then her family would be all right. But it wasn’t working anymore. Something was wrong and no matter what Christa did she could not seem to make it right again. No matter how perfect her bed was made, how precisely each toy was lined up on her shelves, how many vegetables she ate, or how well-behaved she was, it wasn’t making a difference anymore.

Mommy noticed her still standing in the hallway. “Christa, I told you to go to bed.” She sounded so unhappy. Christa searched her mind for something she could do, just the right thing she could say to make everything perfect again.

“Mommy,” she said, chewing nervously on her chapped bottom lip. “Do you want some of the macaroni and cheese Suzy and me made. It is the kind from the box, but we put in extra cheese. I helped, Mommy. I could heat it up in the microwave. I know how. Would you like that?”

“No. Just please, go to bed.” Mommy said with hardly any feeling. She turned away from Christa and walked into the kitchen. Christa followed, cautiously, quietly. Mommy reached under the counter for one of the bottles she only ever took out for parties. The smelly stuff Christa was never allowed to have a sip of, like Daddy sometimes allowed with his beers. Christa was near terrified now at her own disregard for the direct order to go to bed, but she needed to try again to make everything all right. Mommy still had her back to Christa as she reached for a glass and began pouring from the bottle.

“Mommy, do you want to see my report card? It came in the mail today. I know Daddy doesn’t want me to open the mail, so I didn’t open it, but I think I did really good, Mommy.” Christa spoke quickly so she could get it all out before she lost the last bit of courage she still held on to.

Christa’s question startled her mother, causing the bottle to jerk in her hand and the liquor to spill out on the counter. Without turning around Mommy slammed down the bottle, then yelled at her, “Damn it, Christa. Just go to bed. Now!” Christa fled to her room.

Now, on top of her covers, Christa lay curled up as small as she could get. She never let anyone else see her do it, but Christa sucked on her thumb now. Her other hand rubbing the silky edge of her blanket. The steady rhythm of these actions soothed her. She thought about what she could have done different, or what she could have said so Mommy wouldn’t be mad at her now. Unwanted tears spilled from her eyes. ‘Stop crying Christa, stop crying Christa, she repeated over and over to herself, but she couldn’t will the tears away. Finally she fell asleep, her thumb still in her mouth, the blanket clutched tight in her other hand, and her cheeks wet with her despair.

That was how Ann found her when she checked on her later. Ann knew that her daughter tried to be strong and grown up, but eight-year-old Christa looked small and helpless lying there, curled in a tight little ball. Ann felt bad for yelling at her earlier. She covered Christa with a pink and yellow afghan from the bottom of the bed, then gently pulled Christa’s thumb from her mouth. She was such a good girl. Ann hadn’t seen her suck her thumb for four years. Four years since she had told Christa that only babies sucked their thumbs and that she was a big girl now; four years ago, when the three of them had been a happy family. Now, well now, everything was different. Now Ann had the proof she had avoided for so long. Tonight she had seen the truth of it; she could not lie to herself any more. Once truth is known, it can not be unknown; and the truth was bleached blond, with long legs and a piercing laugh that had ripped through Ann’s heart all the way across the dark, smoky bar.

Ann sat on the edge of the bed and smoothed Christa’s baby-fine hair away from her tear-swollen face. Ann’s own tears began to fall and sobs shook her body as she struggled to keep them inside and silent. Christa woke then and looked up at her mother with serious eyes, studying her for several heartbeats until she sat up and wound her arms about her mother’s neck. “Mommy, what can I do? Please don’t cry. I’ll be better. I’ll go to bed right away tomorrow. I promise.” Christa held on tight trying to take her mother’s pain into herself, trying to protect Mommy.

Ann gently pulled the little arms from around her. “Christa I know when I left tonight you thought I was mad at you, but I wasn’t sweetie. I truly wasn’t.” She kissed Christa’s cheek. “I was upset with your Daddy and I needed to talk to him. That’s why I went out.”

“But Daddy’s in Frisco for business. He is going to bring me a souvenir, he said he wouldn’t forget this time.”

“Christa, your Daddy isn’t in San Francisco like he told us.” Ann struggled to keep herself under control. “Sweetie, you know things haven’t been very good lately. So much fighting and yelling. Christa, your Daddy’s not coming home on Friday. It’s just going to be you and me now, baby.” Ann closed her eyes, her chin quivering as a fresh onslaught of tears threatened.

Christa was smart girl. She knew what the unspoken word was. She had listened to the other kids as they told their horrible tales of this speech and the result, the beginning of their torn apart lives. Each story was slightly different, but it all ended the same, the end of everything good, forever – divorce. Right then Christa heard it, felt it even, far down deep inside of her, a terrified scream, so deafening in her own mind Christa was startled her mother didn’t comment on it. Then Christa realized, the cry was trapped inside of her, no one, not even her Mommy, could; or would hear it.

After a long silent moment Christa said, “I’m kind of tired now,” her voice so dead that it frightened Ann. “I’m gonna go to sleep now, Mommy.”

“Are you sure, baby? Don’t you want to talk some more?”

“No,” Christa answered, turning her back on her mother for the first time in her life.

Ann sat there a while longer just listening and watching her daughter breath. Then quietly she left the utterly neat little room.

Hearing the door close, Christa got up from her bed. With only a moment’s hesitation, she went to her dresser, the one she and Mommy had painted white, with pink trim and little rosebuds. She opened the top drawer and stood there staring at the drawer’s contents. Every sock was matched with its mate and rolled into a ball; her little girl underwear was all folded exactly so. Christa suddenly pulled the drawer out farther, tugging it until it hung loose and heavy in her small hands. The sock balls spilled out, the underwear tumbled to the floor in a heap. When she shoved the draw back in she left it stuck at an odd crooked angle. She pulled open the next drawer, and dumped out all the T-shirts and shorts. Then the next, out came her long pants and sweatshirts. She kicked at the pile of clothes, sending them flying. The bottom drawer held her favorite art projects, and all the tests and papers from school with their circled bright-red A’s. It was the A’s that tormented her now. Christa held up one test with its taunting 100% and ripped it slowly, deliberately. The soft tearing noise was as soothing to her now, as sucking her thumb had been earlier. She ripped another, then another and then in a near frenzy, two and three at a time were shredded between her little girl hands. Finally she pulled out a picture she had drawn just last week; Mommy, Daddy and herself smiling, holding hands. Daddy had said it was a good picture, one of her best. Christa now ripped it once, then again, then again and again, until at last there was nothing left but tiny colored pieces of paper-dreams scattered across her floor.

Hours later Christa lay curled in the corner wrapped in the pink and yellow afghan. The soft glow of her night-light enough to see by. Her other blankets were cut to pieces, tossed around the room like so much confetti. She had ripped and slashed at them with her kid scissors, working hard until the job was complete. She scanned the rest of the destruction. Not one toy or doll was left standing on her shelves. Her small trophy from the spelling-bee lay on the floor, broken. Her favorite Disney posters; Snow White, Cinderella, Sleeping Beauty, all had ugly blue and black marker slashing across their centers. Finally, there were her once beloved books, all her fairy-tales now lying in a heap, their pages ripped from their bindings; no more happy endings. One last tear slipped down her cheek and Christa thought, nothing would ever be perfect again.


If you speak the fear it will grow to have substance
So try and quiet the screaming in your mind
Even as it nips at you with sharp razor teeth

If you share the fear it will become corporeal
And will beat on you until
You fall beneath its bludgeoning fists

If you fight the fear you give it power
For in the fighting you must name it
And naming is overwhelming voodoo

So do not speak
Do not share
Do not fight

Close you eyes; stay quiet and still
Wait until tomorrow
When perhaps it will be safe again

~ LJ

Wednesday, January 7, 2009

Eeyore Quotes Are Lovely Glum

"Good morning, Pooh Bear," said Eeyore gloomily. "If it is a good morning," he said. "Which I doubt," said he.
"Why, what's the matter?"
"Nothing, Pooh Bear, nothing. We can't all, and some of us don't. That's all there is to it."
"Can't all what?" said Pooh, rubbing his nose.
"Gaiety. Song-and-dance. Here we go round the mulberry bush."


"Eeyore," said Owl, "Christopher Robin is giving a party."
"Very interesting," said Eeyore. "I suppose they will be sending me down the odd bits which got trodden on. Kind and Thoughtful. Not at all, don't mention it."


Eeyore walked all round Tigger one way, and then turned and walked round him the other way.
"What did you say it was?" he asked.
"Ah!" said Eeyore.
"He's just come," explained Piglet.
"Ah!" said Eeyore again.
He thought for a long time and then said: "When is he going?"


"I don't hold with all this washing,"
grumbled Eeyore. "This modern behind-the-ears nonsense."


There are those who will wish you good morning. If it is a good morning, which I doubt."

Tuesday, January 6, 2009

Watery Bowels

Well, it's Tuesday and I'm still having - watery bowels - as the old ones called it. My appetite is pretty good. I have no nausea or cramps to speak of but virtually everything I put into my mouth, chew, and swallow comes out the other end liquid. S*%%! Indeed. This morning it smelled and looked exactly like baby poop. Am I regressing THAT much?

On another note, I have to make yet one more trip to Arizona to attend to some less than pleasant family business. May have to see my evil, nasty, hateful step-mother while I'm there - if I'm that unlucky. But, on the positive side, I will also do some needed research for a book I'm writing, so, as with most of life, there is some balance - if you look hard enough. Back to work for a couple more hours, then a hot shower, nap in a warm bed, and maybe I'll feel better about things when I wake up. Maybe not.

DD&D Theme Song?

Ok, start to the list of really depressing songs.

Invite to Participate and the Rules

This is an open invitation to you to become a writer at Despair, Devastation & Dysfunction. You can post once a month (that is the minimum) or every day (that is the maximum) or any where in between.

Rules/Guidelines for Contributors –

1. Email me at asking to be added as a contributor and put in that email your gmail email. You must have a gmail account to do so but that is easy enough. If you don’t have a gmail account simply click on the Sign In option on the top right corner of this page, and get signed up. It might take you five whole minutes, and that might be too much stress, so really, just put it off a few days first if you must.

2. Once I have your email I will send you an invite that you accept and assuming nothing goes technically wrong, which it probably will, you will be ready to share your darkness with the blogging community.

3. Posts – you will avoid the inclusion of anything cheery, uplifting, or positive. You know when you were a kid and your diary was full of angst and woe-is-me-ness? That is what this blog is for. Lost your job, dog is sick, someone stole your parking spot, crashed your car, just generally glum. This is the place to put all that lovely grey. Are you sick or just tired, have you been sick & tired for a year? Share it here. Unhappy, gloomy, dismal, down in the dumps, miserable only. Now, that said, you can make it funny, witty, laugh-out-loudable, just not happy or upbeat. You can share if something happened after that was happy, but that should not be the focus of any post.

4. You may offer sad and depressing songs, wild rants about politics, essays about lumbago, poems filled with heartbreak, just a recitation of crappy day, you can go on and on for 1,000 words about laundry for all I care. Yes, you may write fiction or non-fiction (though letting us know which is which is helpful). It is all up to you.

5. Cussing to be kept to a minimum. If you need to use a F word (or any other similar profanity)… do this F*%#.

6. No sharing of any illegal activities you have committed. Unless it involves stealing stamps at work or something mundane of that ilk. Charles Manson is not welcome to share his evil darkness here. This blog is for those everyday icks and blahs.

7. No discussions of suicide. If you need to kill yourself please call your mom, sister, best friend, or an unlucky co-worker, or even better your local suicide hotline. As we here in the blogisphere really can’t do much to stop you from being that selfish, and really don’t want to feel that bad. Yes, selfish, suicide is selfish, get help!!

8. If you go two months without posting you will be removed as a contributor. Yes, even here in the darkest places depository you can be ousted from the club.

9. When you post add your name to the Labels for this post area under each post creation template, use the same name every time. Nothing else please. This will make your name searchable for all your posts. Unless you screw up and then you will get hard to find and no one will probably read your desperately sad posts anyway.

10. The Despair, Devastation & Dysfunction Administration reserves the right to edit (probably only for swear words) or flat out remove any post that it deems entirely inappropriate or a violation of the rules. No, you don’t get a vote. Though this is about all things melancholy, gloomy, sad… strangely it is meant to be a bit fun. No evil, demented or vicious (start your own blog titled that if you want).

11. While you may quote a story, or some other depressing bit, do make your posts yours. Just posting sad news stories isn't what this is about. If you want to use something sad/depressing/heartbreaking do offer the appropriate links and such.

Rules for comments –

1. Don’t be mean, hateful or nasty.

2. I don’t know, that's about it… if I think of something else I will let you know.