Well, Fuck

I'll say this up front in case anyone reads this ... I'm not trolling for sympathy with this post. Everyone has their fair share of shitty luck. It's something we all share, really. Life sucks sometimes. Deal with it.

But writing is what I default to when I need to get some stuff off my chest and out there in the ether, away from me. Name thy devil so that thoult shalt kill it.

So it's been a shitty seven or so days.

Last Thursday night, the engine block on my 2006 Civic cracked, so there's $2200 down the drain. Possibly. As it turns out, there's a recall on the engine blocks of that particular make and model, so there might be some reimbursement coming back to us, which would be nice. Not sure that it'll replace the confidence I have in the car motor for the future, but ... well, there you go. Had to replace the clutch as well, while they were in there, since it would be parts only, no additional labor. First gear was going out, so I can't really argue with that.

On that same day, Steph found out she'd separated some of the cartilage in (on? between? which fucking preposition is it??!) her ribs, so that was awesome.

Today, we had to put Fletcher down. It was pretty much horrible. Steph cried. I cried. I wish it had been in the morning, but as it was, the appointment was at 3:30 in the afternoon, which gave me all day to think about what was coming.

I gave him a bath. I gave him a bunch of treats. I told him I loved him. All the while, I felt like a goddamn Judas. I knew all day I was ... well, there's no way to sugarcoat it. I was having his life taken from him. It seems like the worst sort of betrayal. He trusted me to care for him for fourteen-and-a-half years and it ended like this.

And it happened so fast. One minute he was nervous, and looking at me. I had my hand on his head and I tried to look him in the eyes, but I couldn't. I was crying and leaning on Steph. I kept my hand on him the whole time, but one second he was there, and then next he was gone. And now I'm in the house listening for the click clack of his toenails on the hardwood floors, then realizing I'll never hear them again. He's gone forever.

Yes, rationally, I know it was probably for the best. The poor guy couldn't keep from crapping on himself, could barely get up and down the two steps between the house and the back porch. He had cataracts in both eyes and some sort of cyst/tumor on his ribs. He had arthritis so bad in his back legs that he couldn't walk right, couldn't stand right. His little spine was bowed up when it used to be so strong and straight. And even though he ate the same amount of food every day, he was losing weight. He could no longer jump. He could no longer run. He sure couldn't chase a ball, which was his favorite thing in the world.

I know all this and I still feel like I betrayed him. I spent most of the last months angry that I was cleaning up dog crap every day. I was not empathetic enough. I didn't take care of him as well as I did before Kaia was born.

I have all this guilt. I feel fucking horrible. I'm sorry, Fletcher. I wish I'd have done better by you. I'm so sorry. For all your quirks and faults, you were a sweet, trusting, beautiful dog and I'll miss you forever. I love you, buddy.

So yeah. There's that. I'm consoling myself by sitting in the crappy old red recliner in my den, drinking rum and Cokes and listening to metal.

But wait, there's more.

So toward the end of November, Holly Wall posted this link to a certificate program at TU, basically a white hat hacker program. More or less it's a not-quite-degree program whose graduates catch hackers and cyber terrorists. Reading the article, the program head talked about how lawyers and retired military personnel enroll in the program and succeed.

It sounded like pretty much the best thing I'd ever heard of. I forwarded it to Steph and told her I was going to do it. She told me that I could, no matter what it cost. And the next morning on my 75-minute commute, I thought about nothing but doing just that, and I felt ... contentment, almost happiness. Like I'd finally figured it out.

Course, me being me, on day two of The Revelation, I started worrying about what prerequisites I'd need to get into the program. I pretty much pussied out in college, after all. I started college life as pre-Med and ended up a journalist, though I was the only journalism graduate I knew in my glass who finished with a B.S.

But what happened was The Fear. This fear is the same thing that's kept me from writing a novel or applying for really awesome writing jobs. I'm afraid that I will not be smart enough or good enough to accomplish the feat, and therefore I don't try. Because if I try and fail, then what will I have? I won't be a potential novelist, I'll be just not good enough, not smart enough.

So I didn't call the department head. I didn't want to hear that I didn't have the math for the program, that I didn't have enough coding.

Well, again, because I'm me, I picked today to call the guy. Got voicemail, of course. But he called me back an hour before I was scheduled to take Fletcher to the vet. He quizzed me on my degrees, on my math, on my programming. And then he found me wanting. He told me my degrees were weak, that I didn't have enough math, and that I sure didn't have enough programming. He told me I was welcome to apply with the CIA/NSA directly (that's where 85 percent of the program's graduates go to work), but that I didn't have good enough qualifications to get into the TU engineering program, and therefore no chance of getting into his program.

And I told him thanks for calling me back.

Yes, before you point it out, I know I can start taking math classes and programming courses and shore up my deficiencies. I know that. And I probably will. Steph forwarded me one of those motivational jpgs a few weeks ago that said, "Don't choose to not do something because it'll take a long time. The time is going to pass anyway." But goddamn if I'd rather have had another day to hear "you're not good enough for my program." I don't do well with rejection on my best days.

Sigh. Deep breaths. No one I love has a terminal disease. No one I love is jobless.

Turning 40 has not been kind to me so far. I more keenly hear the ticking of the clock. I feel frantic. I'm running out of fucking time. Don't be me, kids. Don't wait. Do it now. Do it today. Figure your shit out and press on. Make it happen. Don't be 40 and still be trying to figure out how to make your dreams come true. Hell, don't be 40 and still be trying to figure out what your dreams are.

Now, just to show that I have made some progress in my 40 years, I'm going to try to end this blog post that no one's going to read on an up beat.

Next Friday night, February 8th, I'm going to be testing for my apprentice instructorship in JKD. As you might expect, I'm scared shitless. I'm not a big fan of doing something in front of people, and my instructor has invited everyone and their dog to come to our test, including some of his instructors. It's taken me a year longer to get to this point than most the other guys I'll be testing with. They're all younger than me, and they don't mind getting punched in the head (which is something I've had to overcome to even get as far as I have).

JKD isn't like a lot of other martial arts. There are few techniques. We don't do katas. I'm not getting a belt, haven't received any belts. It's a proficiency thing. Half our test is sparring. You learn to fight. You either are or you're not. I assume that if he's testing me then he's decided I'm ready for this, but ... hell. I don't feel ready.

However, should I accomplish this, it's something I'll be proud of. I've been scared my whole life of mostly everything. Training in these particular martial arts has done a lot for me, I mean, apart from teaching me how to inflict grievous bodily harm on other people. Not that I would ...

Okay, I should go to bed. The Coke is gone (though not the rum ... I could just drink the rum out of the bottle, I suppose).

Signed Desperately Trying to Figure Shit Out