Perfect

I was reading tumblr (did I spell that right?) and came across this:

fuck it

and the funniest thing happened:  on my desk  there are no books. At all. Nada. Not even a phone book.

Which, as they say, is a fucking perfect description of my sex life.

nelson_muntz.jpg

coping

I’m thinking today of the phrase “Make the best of a bad situation.”

It seems right now that’s all I can do.

I can’t even write about why I’m so frustrated right now. This morning my son treated me to such screaming, yelling, arm-waving and name-calling that would make a sailor blush. All because I had the audacity to ask him not to remove his window screen and sneak out of the house while I sleep.

I know – I’m so fucking unreasonable.

And we never failed to fail
It was the easiest thing to do.

What else is going on? I still don’t feel like I’m wanted at home. It matters little what I actually do, how fucking hard I try, because it’s only a matter of time before a child calls me a fucking faggot that needs to die a horrible death. yes, he said that this morning, and no, that wasn’t the worst of it, that was pretty mild actually. This happened, of course, because I’m a negative depressed person that doesn’t care about his children.

I cannot help that I have made horrible mistakes. Yes, I fucked up. I admit I suck. I have tried to make amends with little effect. It just doesn’t matter.

I have possessions, and there isn’t room for them, so I feel like I’m imposing just being there. Should I rent a storage unit for my crap? Throw it away? Try and sell? (Anybody need a couch? Or a TV stand? Some clothes?)

I want so badly to provide for my family, to help them be happy, to stop hurting them, and every fucking thing I try just blows up.

But what choice is there but to keep trying?