I Can't Think of a Title Without Swearing.

As I sat in my office, I got a notification from CNN's app saying that the House of Representatives will not vote on any legislation regarding the so-called "Fiscal Cliff" until tomorrow.

I check out the full article (http://politicalticker.blogs.cnn.com/2012/12/31/house-unlikely-to-vote-on-any-deal-until-after-cliff-deadline/) and find these points that stick out:

"There is no difference in voting at 2 a.m. than tomorrow at 4 p.m.," one of the GOP sources said.

Fuck. You. This is the response of a procrastinating college freshman who spent his financial aid on a kegerator the week before a final paper was due. "Look, Bro, the shit's not due til 6, I'll bust it out, no big deal."

Well, GOP frat boys, it is a big deal. You've had over a fucking year to get your shit figured out. If this was school, a real job or your fucking rent check being late, you'd be on your ass in the street. But no, real life doesn't hold any meaning for you anymore, does it? "Aww, fuck it. What's the worst that can happen?"

My life, and the life of millions of others, gets royally fucked. The dad who lost his job due to "cost-cutting" measures at the company posting record profits can have his unemployment held, costing him his fucking house. The poor grandma taking her cocktail of Parkinson's and cancer drugs has her Medi-Care payments frozen, now she can't stop the agonizing shaking her self during the unknown time where you try to figure this shit out whenever you feel it makes you look the best.

"GOP sources admitted there is an added benefit to the Senate's delay: taxes would already be up, so lawmakers could argue that they are voting for tax cuts, as opposed to tax increases."

And here, my last point is re-iterated.

So, the House leaders see a hole. They could fix the hole, but then people won't REALLY know how much damage the hole could have done. Rather, they'll let someone completely eat shit by stepping in the hole, stepping up and saying "oh, here, we didn't see that hole at first, but we just filled that hole up a bit, now it's not so bad." In their mind, they look like fucking Zorro, cape waving in the wind. In my mind, they look like a bratty 7 year old wearing a Power Rangers sheet with their Underoos on their head.

So, here I come, knowing full well that I am about to step into this fucking hole, trying to guess "can I fill out my taxes on time?," "How much will my paycheck be different?," "Will this cause me to lose my fucking job?"

I'm sure I'll sleep a lot fucking better once the smoke settles and only a few thousand people lose their jobs, homes and peace of mind. John Boehner, you're a fucking dickhead.

Degradation of Self.

A week ago, my Grandmother passed away. Her funeral was yesterday. Just as with my grandfather's funeral 14 months ago, I fucking hated it. I hated the pastor who didn't know my grandmother, I hated the slutty Vegas-hooker outfit my aunt wore, I hated my dad's stupid orange mullet and his new girlfriend, who's fucking younger than I am. But almost all of this was driven by my hatred of how my grandmother's last year on Earth went.

My grandmother, Gertrude Isabelle Yost, had Alzeheimer's. Stage 6, which is the second to worst stage, had her striking her nurses, screaming at my dad to kill her, and unaware of her surroundings. She had become an echo of her former self. I can't think of too many things worse than the thought of losing my mind. It's one of the most terrifying things I can imagine.

As the funeral got closer, I couldn't bare the idea of sitting still, of not doing something. If I sat there, I would find myself dwelling on it. I found myself using the probability of moving as an excuse to do stuff like pack and wander the house, grabbing any and all of my stuff that has made it's way into the dark corners of my roommate's house. I couldn't just SIT THERE. Sitting there wasn't an option.

"Will I forget who Cal is?"
"Will I just sit there, staring at a wall while shitting myself?"
"Will I want to live anymore?"

I found that I could think about it, but not talk about it. The second I started bringing it up to Cal, I could feel myself tearing up. I feel bad, because I wanted to tell her what I was feeling, but couldn't get the words out. At least until after the funeral. But now that that's gone and passed, I can breathe a bit easier, though I am still pretty freaked out about the amount of mental illness that happens in my family.

This was my dad's mom that had just passed, but my mom's grandma also had Alzheimer's, having once told me that she saw my mom the week before, in jail. This was before she tried to stomp on the non-existent snakes coming from the floor.

My aunt's bi-polar, my mom suffers from depression (though, like most people with mental illness, feel ashamed and deny it), and I have cousins that are teenagers and medicated for severe mood-swings.

I KNOW that there is no sure-shot way to tell if these things will happen to me, but I know that there are things I can do to help minimize the chances of my mind going to shit. So, I play shit-tons of puzzle games, I write, I debate, I learn everything I can. Anything I can do to keep my neurons firing. I'm sure it comes off as me being easily distracted, which is also true to a point, and a know-it-all, but I can't help it.

THIS SHIT FREAKS ME OUT. More than losing a limb or a sense (though losing the sense of hearing/sight freaks me out pretty good, too.) or having to use a wheelchair or any kind of physical disability.

What I saw was a woman who, in describing her love for my grandfather not even a year and a half ago, might as well have been me describing how I feel about Cal, lose that love. That loss was devastating to her, and I can't imagine the turmoil that the loss of her cognitive abilities added to that. It makes me both angry and sad that even with the massive improvements in science and technology, we can't figure this shit out.