September 07, 2007
Sunday evenin' comin' down
Originally published June 23, 2003
My son goes "home" in less than two hours and the usual after-visitation depression already hit me. He's outside now, playing with Jack and his sisters in between rainstorms. I love watching them. They don't walk, all creaky and stove-up like I am. They RUN, EVERYWHERE, ALL THE TIME. God! I remember feeling that way, long ago, in a universe far, far away.
The rain and the dampness has aggravated my neck, back, shoulder and knee pain to the point that I'm popping Ibuprophen and Motrin like Pez candy and I still hurt. If my dick fell off right now, I couldn't bend over to pick it up. I wouldn't waste the effort on that useless thing anyway.
I had a very erotic dream last night and I was a star performer in it. I had a blue-steel erection, just like the good ole days before prostate surgery. When I awoke, the first thing I did was check my equipment, hoping that not everything in the dream was a dream. Sorry. Same old same old in that category. I am sick and tired of that.
Some people tell me that I'm lucky to be alive, that I should be thankful that my cancer was caught quickly enough that I may live a long time and not die miserably the way my father did. Well, folks, I don't want to LIVE MISERABLY! I can handle of the dying part of life any time it comes, and the prospect doesn't frighten me at all. Living miserably, however, is something I don't intend to do.
I cancelled my appointment for the prostate biopsy the morning after I found my ex-wife sleeping with another man. She became all apologetic after that, and when the doctor himself called to dissuade me from my decision, she was the first one to say, "Rob, you really need to do this for the sake of your FAMILY." I had the biopsy. She kept fucking around and took care of the "family" thing with divorce papers. Pretty woman, bloodless cunt.
You women who read this blog may not understand, but I don''t like being a broke-dick guy. It's very depressing. My dick was a part of my personality and an integral part of my manhood. "Roscoe" was his name when he was alive, and Roscoe and I had many great adventures together. I loved Roscoe and so did every woman who ever met him. (To know him was to love him.) I don't know what I have dangling (dangling? Hell, I can't even manage THAT anymore) between my legs, but it ain't Roscoe. And without Roscoe, I ain't me. I believe I know how women who undergo mastectomies feel. I may not have permanent disfigurement, other than the still-pink scar running from my navel to my crotch, but psychologically, the effects are powerful.
I am lonely and I want a female companion. But I don't feel confident about courting and sparking anyone when I know that Roscoe is dead. I see my urologist on July 9. I'm going to buy a pump. I'll resurrect Roscoe, whatever it takes. Otherwise, I have no reason to get up in the morning, other than my son, and four days every month don't compensate for the other 26 or 27 days that pretty well suck.
Aw, shit. I spiral off like this every time our weekends are over. I'll be in a better mood tomorrow.
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