About Stewie

Not much to say. I work, I watch movies, I write reviews and I love to go to a kick ass coffee shop every Saturday and Sunday.

Getting old is weird.

When I first saw my sister wearing reading glasses, I busted out laughing. Called her old and crippled. She simply said, “Wait until your 40.”

Well, wouldn’t you know it, like the day I turned 40, my eyes just said fuck it, you can’t read without squinting.

I also find things that I used to LOVE even in my 30s don’t have much appeal to me now. I’m meh on fast food anymore, opting to eat at a nicer sitdownish type restaurant or just making my own food (subs and pizza excluded). This might not be a big deal to most, but as a lazy fuck, this is a pretty big change.

But the biggest thing I noticed — and I don’t know if it’s because I’m older or I’m more in tune now — is how aware I am of things. I hate the term woke because it seems so…ugh, yet I don’t enjoy certain things that I know I would have LOVED when I was 16. A good example of this is the novel The Fury by John Farris. I read and reviewed it a bit ago, and while I know teenage me would have ate every word up, adult me found passages gross as fuck (mainly because they were pedo-laden; a 40-year-old men feeling up a 14-year-old girl, as well as a 30-something woman seducing a 14-year-old boy. What sucks is if you can get away from that (and you can’t), it’s a fun ass book. I’ll just stick with the movie though.

Another good example of problematic books is The Howling by Gary Brandner. I’d never read the book until recently (snagged all three for the Kindle for like $1.99!), and I have mixed feelings on it. As pure pulp, it’s a great amount of fun. But holy shit, Karyn, the main character, is fucking helpless due to her having a vagina. First, she doesn’t have a driver’s license. Now, if she was living in NYC, that might be acceptable, but she lives in California. I’ve been to California. You need a license. To make matters worse, when it’s time for her to get away, she gets in the car and has no idea what the fucking gears mean. She literally didn’t know what R mean. Seriously. I can almost get behind not having a license (lazy as fuck writing, but whatever), but not knowing means reverse? C’mon. That’s just asshole writing. You can’t even chalk this up to the time it was written (late ’70s, I believe) because Roy, Karyn’s husband, gets annoyed at her because she is a bit cold with the sex since HER FUCKING RAPE. Yeah.

I have such mixed emotions about The Howling. The reality is the book really is a good read, but he treats the female characters one-dimensional beings. I’m reading the second one now, and Karyn is a bit stronger (so far), so we’ll see.

I don’t know where I was going with all of this. Maybe the whole point is getting old kind of sucks.

You’re so dumb. You are so dumb.

Two Fridays ago…well, not yesterday, but the Friday before Friday before yesterday…I was an in accident. Some dipshit wasn’t paying attention, cut over to my lane and plowed me right into the guardrail. There is so many fucked up things about this whole situation:

  1. When I saw the driver about to hit me, I started cutting into the breakdown lane, but he was having none of that, he just kept coming anyway, into the damn breakdown lane with me.
  2. Dude didn’t even slow down or apply his breaks as he was pushing me into the rail. I know this because I could see his taillights seeing how they were like 3 feet away from me.
  3. The guy was clearly fucking lost, and clearly fucking distracted with something (more on that in a moment).
  4. Dicksuck admitted to the police on the scene that he was in fact at fault. Until he changed his story.
  5. My Escape, my beautiful, innocent, always-good-to-me Escape, is totaled.

You can figure out what happened by 1. and 2. But if you didn’t, long story short, I was taking an exit ramp that has two lanes. I was in the left, he was in the right. He got over to the left to (what I figured) enter the highway. I got over to the right. No big deal. Until he decided to get back in the right lane WHEN I WAS ALMOST PARALLEL WITH HIM. Me moving to the breakdown lane did nothing, because the stupid fuck kept on coming over. So in addition to the driver’s side quarter panel being fucked (pictures below), there is a lovely scrape on the passenger side from the guardrail. (Irrelevant of course because of 5.)

When the cop arrived, he asked me first what happened. I told him pretty much what I just wrote up there, but a little longer. He walked about 100 – 150 yards to where the idiot cause of this whole thing was and asked him what happened. The cop then went back to his car, filled out the report, and came back to me with my driver’s license and registration.

“Here you go, sir,” he said, handing it back to me.

“Did he corroborate my story?” I asked the officer, immediately regretting using ‘corroborate’ because that just seems like I was making something up.

“Yes sir. He will be listed at fault for the accident.”

Good, I thought. At least I didn’t have to worry about fighting that. Until Monday when my insurance company called and informed me that the douche changed his tune and was now saying I rear-ended him. The fuck?

Rather than go into every detail, both my insurance rep and his insurance rep thought that his claim was ridiculous. While his insurance rep didn’t out and out say it — he’s in a position after all — I could here the smile in his voice as I openly mocked the dick who hit me.

But, it gets better. My insurance agent told me that not only did it go down as not my fault because of all the evidence I had, they are also going to get my deductible back when it’s determined it’s his fault and I’m probably going to get my lost work wages too.

Also, as a bonus, today I went and picked up the police report. Not only was the shitstain charged at fault for the accident; not only was dickface issued a ticket for the accident; but it’s also noted in the report that the asshole was distracted by the GPS when the accident happened.

Yeah, you piece of fucking shit. Good luck on not being found at fault here. Cunt.

On the bright side, I got double what I expected the value to be for my Escape, and I got a brand new one with better (and more) options than my baby, and the payments are slightly less than what I was paying. Yes, I absolutely would prefer not to have payments, and I was SO looking forward to being payment free, but I’m in a fortunate position where this won’t hurt me financially. It just really sucks.

“Don’t worry, no one will ever hurt you again,” was what I whispered to my truck after I cleaned it out for the last time. I’m going to fucking miss that SUV.

It’s about control.

As mentioned in my prior post, I legit have OCD (and ADD too, which kind of helps offset the OCD at times, but that’s a story for another time). I can make an educated guess and say OCD affects different people in different ways (like some may be big in keeping a house immaculate — I wish I had that problem — where others might have the counting issue. That’s one of my “things”. I’m a counter on some things. For example, when leaving the house, I count the stove knobs in sets. The knobs on my stove go as follows:

KNOB | KNOB | KNOB | CLOCK | KNOB | KNOB | KNOB

Whenever I leave the house, I do two sets of three and one set of one. So, that first set of knobs to the left of the clock get verified three times (from left to right) that they are off, then the knobs to the right of the clock get verified three times (from left to right) that they are off, then the entire row gets verified once that they are off. If you were in my head, you would hear:Off, off, off. Off, off, off. Off, off, off. Pause, to the next grouping. Off, off, off. Off, off, off. Off, off, off. Pause, back to the beginning. Off, off, off, off, off, off.

If I’m stressed out, I go through that process more than once. And that’s just the stove. Verifying the door is locked is something else entirely. And the lights are off. This is just leaving to go to work. Don’t get me started on going somewhere on vacation.

Anyway, that’s an example of how OCD affects me. But not what I wanted to write about. I can deal with that counting horseshit (which, by the way, I do so the house doesn’t burn down or getting broken into while I’m away…I know, I know), it’s control I must have at all times is what gets to me.

For example, my neighborhood literally only has two streets. The street you drive in and out of, and a side street. Well the dipshit that designed the neighborhood named them the same, except calling one DRIVE and one COURT. Oh, AND KEPT THE SAME FUCKING NUMBERS. Meaning, in my small ass neighborhood, there is a 123 Sandlewood Drive and 123 Sandlewood Court.  What makes it much, much worse, is we have a mail carrier that is retarded. And to add to that, the fuckers that live on Court are lazy pieces of shit. When I get their mail (which is often), I tend to run it down to them because, you know, it’s the right thing to do. The lazy cunt that lives at Court? When she gets my mail, she just puts on the envelope, “Not at this address” and puts it back in the box. I cannot express my rage on both my shit carrier and the cunt at Court. (You may ask why I still run it down to her house, it’s because her son gets boxes from Amazon to me too, and I do it for him because I know he runs stuff up to me; I’ve seen him do it. It’s his mom that’s lazy garbage.)

Anyway, this is the type of thing that kills me because I tend to get a lot of anxiety anyway when I don’t have control over something that I want control over, but this is even worse because I can’t do a goddamn thing about it. Let’s face it, we all know if I complain, I can just kiss my mail goodbye. If this shit that delivers my mail doesn’t give one shit enough TO LOOK AT THE FUCKING ADDRESS SHE’S DELIVERING TOO, there is no doubt in my mind that she will just toss my mail all together if I make a complaint. It doesn’t help that I don’t believe for one second any complaint I make to the Post Office will be anonymous. If her boss likes her, they will immediately tell her who complained. Fuck that.

It’s the same at work. Right now there is an issue going on that is getting dumped on our group to fix as it arises, but nobody is taking ownership of the overall issue, and I just feel like screaming at everyone until something is fixed. And instead of lighting fires under people, we’re getting a runaround on what we should be doing to document this bullshit. I just feel like screaming. Right now the fucking house is on fire, and people are asking our team why we haven’t decided on the brand of batteries to put in the new smoke detectors. THE FUCKING HOUSE IS ON FIRE RIGHT NOW, HOW ABOUT WE PUT THIS FUCKING THING OUT AND THEN WORRY ABOUT THE BATTERIES FOR FUCK’S SAKE. (To be fair, though, I finally forced the issue, a meeting was held, and my manager is now effectively pissed off enough to go crack some skulls. I don’t think he realized the scope of the problem, but once he did, he’s getting everyone involved. But fuck, this is why I can never handle management. The politics of it all is fucking retarded.)

If anyone has any ideas on what to do with my shit carrier while remaining truly anonymous, throw them at me. Apparently, getting the name of the streets changed or renumbered is out of the question. Fucking politics, man.

I know this is insanity.

The thing about OCD is, those that of us that legitimately have it know it’s much more than keeping your movies in alphabetical order or keeping your house clean. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not one of those crybabies that pisses and moans over memes or statements by people about clean rooms and OCD. That shit is funny. But it’s nowhere near an accurate representation of that goes on in day-to-day life.

Here’s but a small example:

Over Christmas, I went on a weekend ski trip with my family. Well, we went to the ski resort (I didn’t plan on skiing, I knew I could get a lot of work done), but unfortunately there would be no tubing — pretty much the main reason my family went up. Because of this, and the shit weather (it was raining the majority of the weekend), we decided to go home Saturday night instead of Sunday because there was really no reason to stay and home was only about two hours away for all of us.

As I was getting into my car, a thought hit me. What if my sister got into a car accident on the way home? The roads were crappy after all. I would lose pretty much my whole family because my dad, niece, nephew, grandnephew, sister and brother-in-law were all in one car. Plus my mom had died the day after Christmas, so the timing meant something! Right? Right??? And that was in my head the entire ride home. I wasn’t happy until I got the call from my family that they were home. This is how OCD works. You get this ridiculous nugget in your head and it’s all you can think about. The rub? I know this thought is insane. I know there is zero reason why I should be…obsessing over this dumb thought. But I do. That’s the real OCD. Getting something locked in your head that just ridiculous, and it won’t go away. Don’t even get me started on when I start dwelling on things that happened 20 years ago that a normal person wouldn’t be bothered by. Or the amount of times I check the lights and stove before I leave the house.

This was going to be a post about my fucking mailwoman, but it went on longer than I thought. So that’s another story for another time, and that is OCD related too.

What’s unrelated is this cover of Bad Company’s Bad Company. Five Finger Death Punch did a phenomenal job with it.

I’ve just closed my eyes again.

Of all the electronic devices in my house used to watch media, my Roku is probably in the top 2. In addition to the standard ‘channels’ you can put on it like Netflix, Hulu, and Amazon Prime, there are a plethora of other channels available. Channels like Comet, Pluto TV, Periscope, and more have found their way onto my Roku box.

On occasion, I go through my channels and delete the unwatched and expired ones and add new ones that I may or may not ever get around to using. I was doing this the other night when I came across one called “Lucid Dreaming”. I’ve had a half-assed interest in lucid dreaming since I first heard of it, but I never really did any research on it. The short of it is, if you practice, you can take control of your dreams.

The channel has a bunch of little chapters, about 2 minutes each, on what lucid dreaming is, the history of it, how it works, and how you can do it. I watched many of these chapters with some interest, and made the decision to do the tips. I tend to dream often, especially now that I’m getting more sleep with my CPAP machine, so I figured what the hell. And couple the CPAP machine with melatonin — a sleep aid that has the “side affect” of vivid dreams — and you have a party. One I like going to.

One of the things the channel suggests is to keep a dream journal, which I’ve started. I’ve already logged two dreams and I’m debating on making a page on this blog specifically for those dreams. However, the very fact that I’ve started a dream journal makes me feel like a pre-teen girl who is writing about her dream dates with Johnny.