zenexistence

So the funeral was Friday.
It was nice.
Even with all my trepidation towards doing so (I refused to take my anxiety meds) I decided to be a pallbearer.
It only struck me about halfway through the services that my friends body was in the stupidly expensive wooden box that we were escorting down the aisle.
It was a Catholic service.
I was raised Catholic and I truly adore Latin mass but I forget all the nuances besides crossing yourself. I was somewhat disappointed that more time was spent on pomp and ceremony rather than on addressing this young man that has just died. Yes, it's Catholic mass, yes they stand on ceremony, but ... fuck.



I hate crying.
I very rarely do so, or at least not in public.
I've known Jason for 22 years and his family grew up across the street from my family. His Dad was taking things as, well, most Dads do; reserved, saddened, stoic. His Mom, who was always very similar in temperament to the father, was not so that day.
Her crying was the most heart-rending them I've experienced in memory.
So as I sat there, waiting for the cue to move forward with the casket, I tried to block out the sounds around me.
That worked like, well ... something that works really shitty because it didn't, in fact, work. You know when you fight the tears and that turns your chin into that tight little biscuit? And then you get that ridiculous-looking quiver-thing going on with the lip? So then you keep staring up and to the right like you're attempting to optically track the flight of some Triassic-based pterosaur and NOT actually cry?
Yep, that was me.
Of course I still cried.
With that it finally hit me he truly wasn't coming back.
I then cried a lot more.

The best part of the service was when everything was said and done they signaled the pallbearers to escort the casket to the Hearse. Well, you don't take classes for this type of thing and none of us had done it prior (thank Zeus) so when it came time to move it we had to do this retarded, awkward, ill-planned three-point-turn to get the casket turned around. None of us knew what the other was doing. Truth be told this elicited a bit of anger because you could have told us what needed to be done PRIOR to the service and not while everyone in standing there in reverent silence waiting to see the departed actually depart.
Best part?
Jason had this cackle of a laugh. A straight-up cackle.

And I'm pretty sure I heard a cackle as we attempted this three-point-turn that begin his final road trip.

I'm switching gears now because I can't dwell. Not right now. Maybe after the holidays I'll allow myself more time to wallow if need be.

So, Christmas.
With Christmas comes my time-honored and near-favorite Christmas movie:


0:59 -- KAZOOOO!

Any of you with even Fruit Loops for brains know that this is Jim Henson, creater of the Muppets. I love the Muppets.
I love the Fraggles.
I love the Skexis and the Gelflings.
Out takes!



Ahem, ooops, sorry.

Fine, here. The first to get this easy quote will recieve the remainder of the mac -n- cheese I'm currently supping on.

Sup'.



I've been writing a lot, most of which will never see even a hint of the light of day. I'm using it as an overflow purge, I believe. I have this bubbling anger that's directly underneath, so close to the top. I'm secure in the fact that I can keep it in check but I'd be lying if I weren't to admit it's a challenge.
I want to break things.
I want to break free.
I just want to break, period.
Regardless, those writing will be thrown in the fire out back as they are too well flavored with sorrow and loss (and a ridiculously liberal dosage of paprika) and I simply can't be THAT person. You know, the one that always spews forth their redundant sadness and angst (and a ridiculously liberal dosage of WHINE) so I'm going to attempt to steer clear of this subject in the future and shrug back into my comfortable and well-tailored [look at my ass] armour of humor and sarcasm.



Road trip to North Carolina coming up to see the parental units for the holidays. A nine hour drive which has me passing through Atlanta.
I love Atlanta.
And there's pretty good polo there.
Hmmm ...



Unrelated subject; I'm pretty thrilled I rediscovered SG. I really am. I've made a couple of very close friends (and, yes, I will use the word "friend" here, as I talk to them as much or more than I do my "fleshy friends").



Fleshy friends are much better than flushy friends, by the way.
You do the math.
Flushy is a creepy word.
Oh, wait, speaking of creepy:



Sleep time. I'm going to go bar the closet, no time for monsters tonight.



<3
Scotty