If You Only Knew; and if I did, too

What a crazy year this will probably be.   For the first time, I noticed that I am old, almost elderly, sort of.  And that absolutely pisses me off!

Few things are as annoying as people talking about getting old.  As if time being aware of one's existence is an evil thing.  The more time, the more evil it is.  That is so lame and boring.  I hate such conversations--most of the time.  Always have.

I remember people making a big deal of turning thirty or forty as if that was a huge landmark denoting the beginning of the end.  Every minute, and every event is the beginning of the end, unless it is the end itself.  Birth is the beginning of the end.  Geez.   What stupid garbage.

But, I finally realized I'm not so different from my father.  He looked younger than his years all his life, up to a point.  Then he all of a sudden looked plenty old enough, and then he was done.  I'd say I look five years older than I did two years ago.  But I go long periods without ever really paying attention to it in an objective or attentive way.

I may not even look different.  Things are different.  I'm being sucked into the medical-government-industrial complex.  And it is an ugly thing.  They want to be stewards of slow and expensive deaths, or protracted illnesses.  If they can't kill you slowly, they can at least milk you and insurance dry by conducting test after test after test until you drop over with boredom, or anxiety because you think you might get too sick to clean up your life before you kick.

On the other hand you think that maybe you made it all up, and if any test reveals hard evidence or numbers out of the norm, that you made it happen.  That is how it works.

The simple way of the world is this: some people can afford the luxury of being old and some can not.  I can not.  Not to say I want to pretend to be 25 or even 35, but I can't play the elderly role that nature expects either.  Because I've lived an unnatural life.  I got divorced. I never re-married, and the closest I ever come to landing a mate is always right at the point when they are ready to graduate John 0's finishing school for women who go on to greater things.  They should pay me.  Ingrates.

All the other measures of life that would naturally be significant are things I sidestepped one way or the other.  Just how it is.

People still nipping at my heels a bit at work hoping to steal my job.  It is bizarre and could easily give me a resentment against all gays and their mothers.  Especially since I took up for them in the past, causing them not to be banned from the place, more or less.  I was wrong.  So I hate them for their games.

That is the least of my worries I suppose, but maybe I should put it at the top.  It can be partly influenced by my actions.  This other stuff may not be under my control, and I'm not sure what to think.

To find out things you have to do things to find out facts.  That is the trouble.  Left to its own devices, the medical-governmental complex will suck you in and spit out the corpse once they've raided your treasure.  So, you have to keep them a little bit at bay.  They need to be questioned and it needs to be known that you do not think a doctor is God, is always right, and has the right to withhold your pertinent information because only they can divine the meaning of tests, values, etc.

It angers many doctors if you question anything.  Their egos, in the aggregate are almost as unbearable as those of pilots and guitar players.  And that is off the charts.

So, I have been able to make music practices and the gigs we've had.  I think my playing is going south, but so far I can fake it enough to get by.  It is a bit of a worry, but what if all the other is just psychosomatic, and has no true effect on my playing?  What if all this money is just going down the drain, and I'm a casualty of the war to convince people they need government monitoring of their health and everyone providing related services.   What if none of it is real and I'm just another stooge, plodding merrily on,  somewhere in the herd being led to who knows what?

What if all that.  How can I be sure without something concrete, beyond the word of a would-be god?  It's a rhetorical question.  I don't want to do what I have to do to find out, and I'm not too sure I want to find out.  I'm not sure what I think they'll find.  I feel like I know, but would be best served forgetting all of this and just living with the crazy itch attacks.

Now we have two types of itch things happen. One is just my hands.  Mostly hands.  The palms get red and welty and itch like a mofo.  Other parts of the hand too.  It comes and goes.  One hand or the other or both. I spray them with cortaid type stuff and benedryl spray.  It helps some but I have that stuff on my hands.  Everything keeps changing.  I think it could take me down and maybe something can be done.  I'm thinking this phase is going to be OK if I can just get everything streamlined, cleaned up, organized, and legally documented how I see fit.  Then all is OK enough.

Secretly, I'm the best natural engineer I know.  But I didn't cultivate that talent much after I quit on the cotton mill air cleaning.  I let the jerks, the insecure science types who fear new and better knowledge and truth, the unoriginal snobby creep types who think they are smarter than they are, or that it matters in cases where it doesn't,;  I let them push me out. I avoided them because I'm a dummy in many ways.  If I ever hear my brother and DC discuss intelligence again, in the self congratulatory way they do, I may punch them both in the nose.

Why someone as accomplished and smart as my kin, with such a wonderful life going, would have to stroke his ego regarding intelligence, with a guy who may be smart but is morally(by my standards) bullshit, I do not know.   Elitists have serious mental issues.